


A Life Most Ordinary

by sonofabiscuit77



Series: A Life Most Ordinary [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deaf Character, Domestic, F/M, Kid Fic, M/M, Police, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester are two ordinary brothers living ordinary small-town lives. Okay, so having a mother who was brutally murdered by one of America’s most notorious serial killers and a father who was forever mentally scarred by the event is not <i>that</i> ordinary, but the rest of their problems: marriage breakdowns and relationship failures, job disappointments and sexuality crisis, and Dean’s two kids, 9 year-old Jonah with his disturbing passion for the music of Lady Gaga and 6-year old Simon with his severe hearing loss, well they’re all completely ordinary. The only thing extraordinary about Sam and Dean is how they fell in love.</p><p>Written for 2010 spn_j2_bigbang challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have used italics to indicate when dialogue is signed instead of spoken aloud.

_I was dressed for success, but success it never comes,  
And I’m the only one who laughs, at your jokes when they are so bad…_  
Here - Pavement

 

The house was quiet when Dean finally pulled his squad car up alongside the Impala on the driveway. One light was burning in the window of the small den which meant that Sam was still awake. He killed the engine, Bruce Dickinson’s screaming vocals dying away with it, and got out the car to walk tiredly up to the front door. Sam had left it unlocked, and Dean frowned as he simultaneously turned the handle and shoved with his hip to get the old warped door to give. He’d told his brother enough times about locking up tight when he was working late. He knew how engrossed Sam could get with his lesson plans or movie reviews or whatever else he found to do on the computer at this time of night (and Dean had a really good idea), but fuck it, anyone could get inside, and considering their family history, Sam should know a helluva lot better than that.

He locked and bolted the door behind him, leaning on it in order to get the tumblers to click into place, chastising himself, as always, for not getting the damn thing repaired already. He set the alarm and trudged down the narrow, cluttered hallway, unbuckling his belt and holster as he made his way to the kitchen at the back of the house. He snapped on the lights and moved to the counter to peer down at the plate of saran-wrapped vegetables and boiled rice Sam had left out for him. Hell, at least it wasn’t beans and rice; by his count, they’d had beans and rice three fucking times already this week. He pushed the plate away with a grimace and reached to unlock the high cabinet above the refrigerator, carefully stowing away his holster and gun. He retrieved the half-full bottle of whiskey from the cupboard by the sink and poured himself a generous glass, dimly grateful that Sam’s cheap-but-healthy food dictatorship didn’t extend quite as far as their liquor cabinet, or more accurately, their one liquor bottle. 

There was a pile of neatly paper-clipped papers on the counter by the broken toaster which he eyed resignedly; more freaking bills, by the looks, some of them in ominous red type. His eyes skated over the scrabble of yellow post-its stuck to the first sheet, various columns of numbers in different colors – some ridiculously complex system of Sam’s - totally fucking indecipherable to him. 

“Dean?” 

He started and spun around to watch Sam enter the room, padding softly in those ancient, thick socks he still insisted on wearing all the damn time, always freaking complaining about his poor circulation. 

“Where were you? Why didn’t you answer any of my calls? You gonna tell me how it went at least?” Sam was using the same disapproving tone he used on the kids when one of them misbehaved, and Dean set his teeth in irritation. 

“How do you think it went?” he snapped. 

Sam’s expression immediately fell, eyebrows drawing together into that familiar look of concern. “Shit, man, I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah. Tell me about it. I thought this time-” he trailed off, jerked out his hand in an all-encompassing gesture that was supposed to explain this latest fuckup. 

“Dean–“ 

“I aced the exam,” he interrupted. “Got nearly full marks on the fuckin’ test, it was just," he broke off again, shrugged. “Whatever, don’t matter now.” 

“What?” Sam asked; he picked a clean glass up from the draining board, the whiskey too, his big thumb pushing the flimsy, cheap cap off to pour himself a generous measure. 

Dean flicked his brother a sideways glance; Sam was watching him closely, still with the sympathetic concerned face. Christ, he knew that damn face, he was going to have to give an honest answer; Sam never let him get away with anything less. He drained his drink, placed the glass back on the counter with a loud chink. 

“Jesus, sometimes I wish I’d never joined the force. I should've stuck with football, Sammy, not given up so easily, not chickened out.” 

“What? You didn’t chicken out and you sure as hell didn’t give up easily. You quit football ‘cause you had to, Dean. Don’t talk such crap.” 

“Whatever,” he snorted. 

“No, no way. Listen to me, man, you made the right decision, you’re great at your job-” 

He raised his hand, cutting Sam off mid-rant. Seriously, he really did not want to hear it right now. “Sam, I just failed to make detective for the third fucking time, now is not the time for one of your freakin’ pep talks!”

“You will make it.” 

Sam sounded so sure, his voice underlain with all that usual Sammy determination, the same kind of single-mindedness that had gotten him that full-ride to Stanford all those years ago, and then made him give it all up, the stubborn bastard. 

He let out a long breath and shook his head, feeling Sam’s eyes on him, warm and concerned. Jesus, if he had half of Sam’s belief in him, then… well, he could see himself now: passing that damn exam (again), getting through that bullshit psych evaluation, Cliff the sheriff calling him into his office to deliver the good news, breaking out the good stuff at the end of his shift, _it’ll be hard to lose you on patrol, Dean, but you’ll make a good detective, I’m proud of you, kid…_

But that hadn’t happened. 

“It was the psych assessment,” he said finally. “The moment that fucking shrink saw my name I could see it in his face. He had all my medical records, he knew all about Mom and Dad. He’d made up his mind about my mental fitness before I even opened my goddamn mouth.” He raised his hand, ran his fingers through his short hair and exhaled again, long and drawn out. 

“Hey, Dean, c’mon, it’ll be okay. You’re still doing a great job, an important job, even if you’re not on the detective squad.” 

He repressed the urge to scoff out loud at Sam’s words: he was a small-town cop, dealing with lost pets, parking violations and pissed-off neighbors pissing each other off even more. Most of what he did was bullshit, and Sam knew it. He could remember when he first joined the force how much he’d loved his job, how he’d enjoyed going to work, helping people, catching the bad guys and defending the good guys. But something had changed over the years, _he_ had changed, becoming a little more jaded year after year as others were promoted over him, as he stayed doing exactly the same thing he’d been doing when he’d joined eleven years ago. And now, fuck it, he was exhausted, he’d had enough. Over the last two years, he’d worked as much overtime as was legally possible, taking every extra shift going, and even then, even with the overtime. 

The pay raise he’d’ve gotten as a detective would’ve been a godsend, and more than that, it would’ve been – God - a change of scenery at least, a chance to do something he knew he could be really fucking good at. 

He pushed back the surge of bitterness and turned to gather up the bottle of whiskey, carrying it and his glass to the kitchen table. He slid onto the bench seat, automatically shifting over to make room for his little (and that was a freaking joke) brother beside him. 

“So, where were you?” Sam asked, taking the seat. 

“Jeannie took me out. Wanted to cheer my pathetic ass up.” 

“Did she succeed?” 

He rolled his eyes and flicked his brother a sideways glance. “Hardly! She started getting on my case about starting up dating again. Like she’s got nothing better to think about than my goddamn love life.” 

“She probably hasn’t.” 

He snorted, “Yeah.” 

“So - what’s she say this time? She got some girlfriend she wants to hook you up with?” Sam’s voice was carefully light, an undercurrent of something in his tone that Dean couldn’t quite pinpoint but that instinctively made him uncomfortable. 

“God, maybe,” he dropped his chin onto his folded arms, deliberately avoiding his brother’s eyes. “She thinks I should try internet dating. Apparently all the cool kids are doing it.” 

When Sam didn’t respond after what felt like a long moment, he tilted his head, peering up at Sam’s face. Sam looked thoughtful, that familiar crease between his eyebrows, his lip caught between his teeth. 

“Don’t tell me you think it’s a good idea?” 

Sam started, as if he was surprised that they were both still there, still in the middle of this conversation. He darted a quick glance at Dean, his expression weirdly conflicted. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “My experience of dates over the internet has been, well – s’just another way of getting laid. But then, I’m not looking to date anyone seriously, and luckily most guys I meet aren’t either. So, you know, it’s just a case of wham bam thank you, man. Another satisfied customer.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re so freakin’ irresistible,” Dean snorted. 

Sam gave him a half-hearted smirk. “Hey, I call 'em like I see 'em.” 

They both went quiet for a couple of minutes, sipping their drinks. Dean cast a look at his brother from the corner of his eye. Sam was playing with his glass, long, slender forefinger smoothing around the rim in a deliberate, thoughtful and very Sam-ish sort of a gesture that he’d always found inexplicably soothing. 

“So, do you want to start dating again?” Sam asked at last, breaking the silence. 

Dean sighed heavily, and ran his hand across his jaw, aware of the scrape of stubble against Dad’s silver ring; man, he needed to shave, he’d been up way too fucking long. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him again, watching him closely, kinda too closely, almost as if Dean’s answer mattered way more than it should. He blinked, turned his head and gave his brother a weak, self-conscious smile. 

“Fuck, dude, I don’t know. I kinda like things the way they are, but.” 

“But what?” Sam’s voice sounded strained to his ear, unusual for one of their late-night, brotherly chats, though, honestly, sometimes he never really knew with Sam. Even after knowing him his entire life, after practically all their lives in each other’s personal space, Sam could still surprise him, getting weirdly intense and terrifyingly earnest over what usually seemed to Dean to be the most insignificant and unimportant shit. 

He raised one hand to rub the back of his neck, gaze drifting down to the table, to his nearly empty glass. “This is kinda lame,” he said with a self-deprecating roll of his eyes, “but, _man_ , I miss regular sex. And, seriously, I never thought I’d be saying this, but even porn can get kinda boring after a while.” 

“You’re obviously watching the wrong porn.” 

Dean made a face, and Sam chuckled, the strange, tense atmosphere vanishing. 

“It was about the boys,” he admitted finally. “Jeannie was saying that I needed to think about them, about them growing up without a mom. How it’s not fair - they should have two parents. And that got me to thinking ‘bout you and me and how we grew up without a mom–“ 

“Yeah? So? We turned out alright.” Sam interrupted, his tone a shade defensive. 

Dean raised one skeptical eyebrow, “You sure about that?” 

“I’m sure!” snapped Sam. “Look, okay, so neither of us have a good track record with relationships, but that has nothing to do with us growing up without a mom. And, Dean, listen to me: starting dating again just because you think Jonah and Simon need a new mom is not a good reason.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean agreed with a sigh. “Anyway, they’ve got you; you’re a way better mom than any chick.” Sam stuck his tongue out at him, and Dean laughed out loud, finally feeling as if the shitty day was melting away. “Least that’s what I told Jeannie,” he added with a smirk. 

He drained the contents of his glass and slid off the bench, clapping Sam on the shoulder. 

“Right, well, I’m hitting the sack, I’m fuckin’ beat.” 

“You not gonna eat anything?” Sam asked, tilting his head so his hair fell across his face, obscuring his eyes in that way that always reminded Dean of when they were kids, Sam squinting at his homework on the kitchen table while he cooked dinner. “Dean, you should eat something.” 

“Blah, blah, blah,” Dean teased as he stalked out the kitchen. “Seriously, Sammy, some day you’ll make some dude an awesome wife.” 

“Bite me!” Sam called back. 

Dean laughed, and gave him the finger before he shuffled upstairs to bed. 

 

**

 

“Hello, Dean.” 

The voice was the same one as always; cloying and sinister, scuttling up his spine like a spider on a shower curtain. 

He cracked his eyes open. He could feel the bed around him: sheets and comforter and pillows and mattress, but it wasn’t his bed, not his bed in his room in his house, the house he’d grown up in, the house he lived in with his brother and his two sons. 

_Where am I?_

“You know where you are,” said the voice. 

Dean fisted his fingers in the sheets, stared up at the familiar ceiling, the mobile of toy airplanes floating above his head. 

_My old bedroom. Lawrence, the house in Lawrence. But, why, why am I here? I don’t want to be here._

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Dean-o.” 

A crack of lightning and the face snapped into focus: smirking mouth and glowing yellow eyes, hunched back and arched shoulders, and Mom – beneath, her golden hair and beautiful unseeing eyes – her mouth blood-red and slack, caught on a jagged scream- 

He woke with a jerk - gasping for breath – needing - clawing for air – shaking - enshrouded by sweat-soaked sheets - around and underneath him.

“Dean, Dean? It’s okay, c’mon, Dean, I’m here.” 

He blinked, Sam’s face looming into focus above him, familiar eyes wide with concern. 

“Sammy,” he croaked. He stretched out his hand, fingers fisting tight into his brother’s t-shirt, the solid big warmth of him – of Sam - unfreezing his locked, unwilling limbs, his sleep-paralyzed body. 

“Dean, c’mon, it’s okay. Just a dream. You’re okay.” 

Sam gently unlatched Dean’s fingers from their death grip on his shirt. Dean blinked and felt the mattress dip beneath him, Sam sinking to the edge of the bed. 

Slowly, he pulled his hand away from his brother, and swallowed again, feeling suddenly foolish. He shifted onto his elbows, moved to lean back against the headboard, hand going up to ruffle through his hair. 

“Was I making a lot of noise?” he asked sheepishly.

“Doesn’t matter, man. It was a nightmare. Not like you could help it.” 

“Jonah and Simon?” 

“Both asleep, they didn’t hear anything.” 

Dean nodded slowly and let out a long, relieved breath. He slumped back into the bed, feeling his heart rate gradually start to slow down, the blood beating in his brain start to quiet. 

“Was it the one – the one with Mom?” 

He flinched, turned his head away from Sam’s penetrating gaze. “Yeah.” He bit his lip, said bitterly, “Hey, maybe that fucking shrink was right.” 

“No, he wasn’t right,” Sam insisted, sounding almost stern. “Don’t you dare think that.” 

Sam was quiet for a moment while Dean took in his words, feeling inexplicably better, made warm by the utter certainty in Sam’s voice. 

Sam shifted and prodded him. “Hey, move over.” 

“Huh?” 

“I’m getting in. Only way either of us is going to get any sleep tonight. Move over.” 

“No, no freakin’ way, if you wanna get in, then you’re getting in the cold side.” 

Sam rolled his eyes and Dean gave him a faint grin, watched his brother circle the bed, throw aside the covers to climb in the other side. Even now, after Jess had been gone for nearly three years, he still kept to only one side of bed, unwilling and unused to spreading out all over it, still seeing the left side as enemy territory. 

“You remember when we were kids?” Sam whispered as he made himself comfortable, smacking the pillows and pulling the covers away from Dean to cover his ridiculously huge body. “When I used to get bad dreams? You used to let me climb in with you and you’d tell me all those stories about the Marvelous Winchester Boys, about us killing all the bad guys and saving the world.” 

Dean half-smiled. “Yeah? You remember that?” 

“Uh-huh. Course I do.” Sam turned onto his side so their eyes met, the reflection of the porch light outside glinting gold and orange in his pupils, Dean’s brain flipped back to his dream, the face with yellow eyes, and he flinched, quickly pasting on a bullshit grin. “That shit was good, Dean. Seriously. You should write it down, make real stories of it. You could be the next JK Rowling.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean scoffed. “Me writing a book? You’re the reader and writer in this family.” 

“Bullshit! You always put yourself down like this, but that’s bullcrap. I know you read, then like to make out like you don’t. You forget how well I know you.” He was staring at Dean with that wide-eyed, intense look, the doe-eyed, shiny faced sincerity that was sometimes too much to cope with; like looking at the sun too long. It made Dean want to hold his breath, the sensation of warm bubbles breaking inside him like his insides were melting chocolate. 

He blinked and turned away, shifting onto his side so Sam’s face was out of view. 

“Whatever. If you wanna sleep here, then keep your ginormo legs to your side, okay? I wanna get some sleep.” 

“You mean like this?” Sam asked, sniggering like a fucking teenager, and pushing his stupid big feet over to Dean’s side of the bed to scrape against his calves. “’Cause this is so comfortable, Dean. I could sleep for the rest of the night like this.” He tossed out one of his fiendishly long arms, flopping it over Dean’s chest, pinning him to the bed. 

Dean pushed him away irritably, “No! Fuck off! And, Jesus, Sam, your feet are like freakin’ ice blocks! Get ‘em off me!”

“Aw, man, you’re no fun,” Sam complained, removing his freakishly cold feet from Dean’s poor calf. 

“Jesus, go to sleep already.” 

Sam sighed manfully and shifted around some more, the whole damn bed shaking with it. Finally, he let out a long breath, whispering, “Night, Dean.” 

Dean felt his mouth curl up into a smile despite himself, remembering their old night-time ritual. “Night, Sammy,” he whispered back. 

 

**

 

The second time Dean woke up, someone else was leaning over him, prodding him in the chest with tenacious, wriggling fingers, and jabbering: “Dad! I made you some coffee. You gotta get up and drink it. Uncle Sammy said you were awake!” 

Dean silently cursed his brother and eased his eyes open, seeing the familiar face of his oldest son, Jonah, peering down at him with big, brown eyes. He grabbed one of the boy’s skinny arms and pulled him to the bed beside him. Jonah screamed and squirmed and dissolved into helpless giggles as Dean leaned in and proceeded to tickle him mercilessly, the boy kicking and wriggling and protesting in the tangled comforter. Eventually, Dean gave up, panting for breath and flopping back down into the mattress, leaving himself wide open for Jonah to crawl on top of him and start playing with his hair, the boy’s new favorite pastime. 

“You have a good day yesterday?” he asked, catching Jonah’s wrist in one hand in an attempt to get him away from his poor hair, which he could tell without looking the kid had teased into a truly terrifying state of bed-head. Jonah’d developed this recent fetish for styling his father’s hair. He’d taken to watching him in front of the bathroom mirror in the morning, commenting and critiquing Dean’s efforts like a freaking stylist off _America’s Next Top Model_. It was faintly disturbing. 

Jonah’s face immediately transformed, a starry-eyed grin sliding across his mouth. He always reminded him of Sam at those moments, the dimples either side of his mouth, big white teeth and infectious enthusiasm, that goddamn deadly Sammy smile. 

“An awesome day! I’m gonna be the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz,” he announced proudly. 

“Hey, dude, that _is_ awesome. You showed ‘em, huh?” 

Jonah nodded enthusiastically. He’d been babbling on about the school performing The Wizard of Oz for the end-of-year play for practically the past month. Even Sam had mentioned it, suggesting the two of them volunteer to paint scenery or distribute flyers, though fuck knew when Sam thought Dean would ever have the chance to do that when he was working practically sixty hours a week, every damn week. 

“Yeah, it’s like totally the most important part for a guy,” Jonah continued excitedly, “The kid who’s the wizard just stands behind a screen most of the time, he hardly gets any real stage-time, not like me, I have 72 lines to learn. Oh, and you have to help me with my costume.” 

Oh, for the love of God… 

He masked his annoyance, saying, “I thought the school handled that sort of stuff.” 

“Nah, not this year. This year we’ve gotta, like, do it at home, like our own special project. We get graded on it too, so you gotta help me out, Dad, if I have a lame costume then I’ll get a sucky grade _and_ I’ll look like a dork!” 

Dean stifled the laugh threatening to come up. The kid was playing a singing and dancing Scarecrow for fuck’s sake, he was gonna look like a dork. 

“Yeah, well, talk to your Uncle Sammy. You know that girly stuff is his department.” 

“He’ll get mad if I tell him you said that.” 

“Well don’t tell him,” said Dean, raising one sly eyebrow. “It can be our secret.” 

Jonah grinned, delighted, and Dean felt the warm feeling in his chest expand. Jesus, it was pathetic how much of a sucker he was for his son’s approval. 

“So, you and Uncle Sammy are gonna come watch me?”

“Of course. Try and keep us away.” 

“And you’re gonna help out and stuff? I think they need, like, scene painters?” He raised his eyebrows pleadingly. “I told Miss Marshall how you painted the garage real good. It would be so cool if you could be there and help out, Dad. Lots of the other parents are, but mainly the moms, but I don’t have a mom, so,” he broke off, heaved out a huge sigh, eyes trained on Dean from under half-lowered lashes. Dean repressed the urge to laugh; Jonah had been using the _but I don’t have a mom like the other kids_ card for way too long for him to be taken in by that particular strand of emotional blackmail.

“Uh-huh, well, we’ll see, kiddo. I might have to work.” He took one careful sip of his coffee, masking the grimace of disgust with a smile. Jesus – how much damn sugar had the boy put in it? 

“You’re always working,” sighed Jonah. 

He swallowed over the guilty lump in his throat and placed his barely drunk coffee on the nightstand. He snagged his hand in Jonah’s belt loop and tugged the boy in closer, looking up in his face, the scattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks, his long dark eyelashes, almond-shaped brown eyes and delicate high cheekbones. His oldest boy was an extremely attractive kid, but then again, with him and Cora as parents, he pretty much had to be. 

“Hey, listen, we should celebrate your big news,” he said. “You wanna go to McDonalds?” 

Jonah shook his head decidedly, pulling a face. “Nah not that, Dad, that stuff’s gross and really bad for you. It’s full of the wrong kind of starches which make you fat. _And_ they kill rain forests.” 

“Oh, right, I forgot that,” Dean answered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Sam had really done a number on his oldest. “So, what else would you like to do?” 

Jonah paused for a moment, widening his eyes in this disingenuous way that Dean knew well, his expression getting almost coy as he dragged his toes against the carpet. “Well, I, uh, you’ll probably say no, ‘cause you always say no, but I really wanna go see this concert.” 

“Jonah, concerts are expensive–“ 

“Yeah, yeah, I know that, Dad! But Uncle Sammy says he has a friend at the Forum and he can totally score us some cheap tickets, like, _real_ cheap.” 

Yeah, and he could totally guess what sort of a “friend” that was. He repressed a grimace, instead asking warily: “Who do you want to go see?” 

“Um, well, Lady Gaga’s playing in August, and tickets go on sale, like, on Monday and–“ 

“You want to go to a Lady Gaga concert?” Dean interrupted, not quite believing what he was hearing. 

“Oh, man, I really, really do! She’s so awesome, like a total genius! Did you see that show she did at the MTV awards? It was so amazing, like the most awesome thing ever. There were all these dancers and they were all dressed like robots and then they disappeared and there were these other dancers dressed like cats...” Dean felt his eyebrows climb up his face as Jonah’s eyes got wide and pleading, the total puppy dog look that he’d probably learned from Sam, and thanks so much for that Sammy. “So, you’ll say yes then? Please, Dad.” 

He blinked again, trying to find some piece of sanity from somewhere. “We’ll see.” 

Dean showered, dressed, and made his way downstairs, pausing in the kitchen to pour himself a fresh (drinkable) cup of coffee. He could hear the sound of Lady Gaga coming from the big den and he shuddered, instead sliding a couple of slices of bread into the dirty, gassy-smelling oven to toast. 

“Hey,” Sam greeted him, coming into the room with Simon trailing after him. 

“Hey,” he answered distractedly. He leaned back against the counter, watched his youngest boy climb painstakingly onto the old bench-seat, his regular spot at the kitchen table, and take the ever present _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ out of his ever-present Transformers backpack, thumbing the book open with fumbling fingers. 

He placed one hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and Simon’s head instantly jerked back, big, hazel eyes blinking behind his glasses as he stared up at his father. 

_You want toast?_ Dean asked, signing the words. 

Simon nodded and held up two fingers; Dean gave him a smile and crossed back towards the oven to add a couple more slices of bread. They were running low, he noted with a twinge of irritation, but then, when weren’t they running low on something? Sometimes it seemed that the only staple they never ran out of was Sam’s disgusting protein powder. And speaking of… Sam was blending up one of those revolting things right now, heaping spoonfuls of the grey powdery shit into the blender along with that cheap long-life milk. Gross. 

Sam caught his eye, giving him one of the many concerned looks he had in his repertoire. He was dressed in his post morning run outfit: old grey sweats and torn sleeveless t-shirt complete with sweat stains and frayed sleeves, damp tendrils of dark hair still glued to his forehead and neck, face still flushed. Dean felt exhausted just looking at him.

“You okay?” Sam asked. 

“Yup, fine, why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I dunno, man, you just look - stressed.” 

Dean ground his teeth and snapped: “Why’d you tell Jonah that it was okay for us to go see Lady Gaga?” 

“Hey, I didn’t say that exactly." 

“Lady Gaga, Sam? Seriously? He’s nine! I can understand you – a freakin’ gay dude – wanting to go, but Jonah is...” he broke off, sighed, “I have a gay kid, don’t I?” 

“Dean, you know better than anyone that it’s bad to generalize. Jonah’s his own person, who’s not afraid to like what he likes and enjoy what he enjoys. You should be proud to have such a creative, unique kid.” 

“I am proud of him! You know that. But c’mon, man, creative? Unique? Next thing is you’re gonna be talking about how freakin’ sensitive he is.” 

Sam huffed out a long breath, one of his _my brother’s so immature_ breaths, and shook his head at Dean. 

The slight whiff of burning distracted him and he turned his attention back to the toast, gathering up the well-browned slices and cursing under his breath as the burning bread met the sensitive pads of his fingers. Jesus, had Sam ever even seen a Lady Gaga video? Shit was fucking _deranged_ , not to mention totally unsuitable for a nine year old boy. He cut the toast into small strips and carried it over to Simon who lowered his book, and took it, signing a quick _thank you_ with his small hand, the expression on his face causing something to clench up in Dean’s chest as he leaned to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead. He slid onto the bench seat and slipped one arm around his skinny shoulders, letting Simon cozy up to him as he ate. 

The phone rang and he watched Sam finish off his shake, and pull up his shirt to wipe his mouth, giving him a glimpse of his stomach with his alarmingly well-defined abs and perfect sculpted chest. Dean swallowed, feeling that customary heated surge of envy and something distressingly close to appreciation in his gut. Sure he was pretty trim himself, but next to Sam he was downright scrawny. Then again, Sam worked really fucking hard to look that good, way harder than Dean ever would, though admittedly, Sam did have a lot more free time than he ever did. 

He finished off his toast, got up to pour himself more coffee and fetch Simon a glass of juice. He placed the glass on the table directly in front of the boy and glanced up to see Sam watching him with that customary, thoughtful crease between his eyebrows, holding the hung-up phone in one hand. 

Sam cocked his head and Dean followed him into the hall. 

“What?” he hissed. “Who was on the phone?” 

“Reiko,” Sam answered. “She wants to come see Simon this summer.” 

“Well, she can’t, we’re going on vacation.” 

“We’re on vacation for ten days. We’ll be here the rest of the time.” 

Dean gritted his teeth, “And you told her that of course?” 

“She’s his mom. She wants to come visit him. What could I say?” 

Dean glanced back over his shoulder at Simon sitting at the kitchen table, obliviously munching his toast and sipping his juice, eyes riveted to his beloved Harry Potter book. He felt his insides knot up again, irritation and anxiety and a fierce possessiveness. 

“She just confuses him,” he said flatly. 

“I know,” agreed Sam. “But, like I said, Dean, she is his mom. She has a right to see him.” 

“As far as I’m concerned, she lost that right when she walked out on him when he was three months old,” he bit back. 

Sam gave him one of the other favorite looks in his repertoire, the patient and sympathetic one this time around. 

“What?” Dean hissed. 

“Just – I think if you decide that right now then you might regret it later. Simon’s young now and you’re right, he doesn’t understand and Reiko does confuse him, but if we prevent his mother from seeing him, he might resent us for it later in life. Think about us, Dean, we never knew our Mom, and I’ve always regretted that more than anything.” 

“That’s different; our Mom died. She would never have walked out on us.” 

Sam sighed, “Yeah, well, point still holds.”

“Okay, fine, whatever. But you can arrange it. And you can explain it all to him.” 

“Don’t I always?” Sam shot back, raising his eyebrows in appeal. 

It was a fair comment. Sam was the one who’d always taken on the lion’s share of the “difficult conversations” over the years, but then, Sam loved that sort of shit, openness and communication being two of his favorite words, the enormous weirdo. In Sam’s opinion, children should always be told the truth by their parents. They should know the reality of the world around them, that way they were informed and prepared to confront all things that life would later throw at them, which all meant that Sam always answered any and every question Jonah or Simon ever put to them with complete honesty and a level of detail only Sam was capable of giving. 

“They deserve to know the truth, Dean,” Sam would insist urgently, and Dean, well, he just let Sam get on with it. Sam was the one who read parenting manuals, Dean just sort of muddled along and hoped he wasn’t fucking his kids up for life; his job offered him plenty of examples of what happened when parenting went wrong. 

He could only recall one occasion when Sam had let his policy of complete honesty slide: when they’d explained to Jonah how his mom, Cora, had left to pursue her dreams of an acting career in LA, and how baby Jonah’d stayed behind with his Dad, his Uncle and his Grandpa because they'd loved him far too much to let him go. The reality was that Cora had never intended to be involved in Jonah’s life; in fact, Dean'd had zero idea she was pregnant when the two of them broke up. She’d just appeared on their doorstop one day, six months after he’d thought she’d left town, looking fit to pop and declaring that a) the baby was his, b) she wanted nothing to do with it, and c) if he – and the rest of his family - didn’t want it, it was going up for adoption and that was that. 

Cora was not prepared to be a mother. She had plans, future stardom beckoned, and a baby would not fit in. As for Dean, he'd been horrified at first, terrified by the entire concept of a baby. Sure, he’d always taken it for granted that he would be a father one day, but not then, not at 22, and not right then – not with Dad so sick and Sammy still in high school – how were they going to deal with a baby when they could barely manage already? 

But Jonah didn’t need to know any of that, he just needed know how much he was loved and adored and wanted by his family once he finally made it into the world after a dramatic 36 hour labor. Dean could still remember that first glimpse of his oldest son, how strange and purple and slimy he'd looked when the midwife held him out, how small his little fingers with their tiny perfect nails had been against Dean’s own big hand. He'd loved him straight away, Jonah Samuel Winchester, his boy. It’d been the same the second time around, the same burst of love and protection and adoration overtaking him when he’d held his youngest son in his arms, Simon John Winchester, smaller than his big brother, but just as perfect. 

He watched Sam slide onto the bench seat beside Simon, half-turning to face the boy as he started to sign. Dean watched them for a moment, recognizing: “Mom”, “Dad”, “Summer”. Of course Sam wouldn’t wait to explain to Simon about Reiko’s upcoming visit. Sam had never been one for prevaricating, he liked to face things head on. Dean bit his lip, the familiar guilty irritation churning in his gut as he turned around and padded off to the big den. 

Jonah looked up at him as Dean slid onto the couch beside him, heaving out a dramatic sigh complete with that martyred expression that was a carbon copy of Sam’s martyred expression and just as annoying. 

_I’m not turning it over_ , he signed. 

Dean glanced at the TV: freaking _Glee_ for fuck’s sake. Man, he hated that damn show. If it were up to him, he’d throw those fucking DVD’s in the trash right now. But it wasn’t up to him, and for some unfathomable reason, Sam, Jonah and Simon all loved the soul-sucking, plastic crap, despite the fact, he was sure (or at least he hoped) that the boys only got about half the “jokes”. 

_Watch what you want,_ he told Jonah, slumping back into the couch and letting his eyes fall closed. 

A couple of minutes later, he felt the cushions beside him dip, then a warm body fall against him. He opened his eyes, seeing Simon’s little face peering at him. Obviously the talk with Sam had gone well, definitely no evidence of tears. Dean smiled and pulled him onto his lap, winding his arms around his waist as Simon made himself comfortable and turned his wide, unblinking eyes to the TV. 

He pressed a kiss to the top of Simon’s head, and looked up, feeling someone’s eyes on him. Sam was standing in the doorway, watching the three of them with this strange, unreadable expression on his face. Dean raised an eyebrow at him, and Sam blinked, reddening slightly, his eyes skating away from Dean. 

_Join us, Uncle Sammy?_ Jonah said, _It’s the Madonna episode. You like that one._

Sam nodded and smiled at Jonah, and Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He totally blamed Sam for this; Sam was the one who’d gotten the kid hooked on this terrible show, and Simon just followed where Jonah led. It was one of the biggest disappointments in Dean’s life that he’d never managed to get Jonah interested in any decent music. The kid actively disliked everything Dean loved, calling it “lame ancient Dad music”, to Dean’s consternation and Sam’s amusement. And Simon, well, his little boy would never know the joy of hearing an awesome Jimmy Page solo or Keith Richards hook. It was one pleasure that would always be denied to him. 

He swallowed over the hollow in his throat, pulling Simon in reflexively, pressing his lips to his warm, wavy hair. He watched Sam come into the room, unfold his enormous body onto the floor; his back was against the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, feet brushing against the broken fender. Jonah nudged Sam’s shoulder with his toes. Sam turned his head, rolled his eyes at him, then bowed his head obediently, Jonah shifting along the couch so he could lean over to play with Sam’s hair. He was possibly even more obsessed with Sam’s hair than he was with Dean’s; but then again, Sam did have a lot more of it, the big girl. 

He watched Jonah carding his fingers through Sam’s hair through half-lidded eyes, tuning out the obnoxious blare of the TV. Simon’s solid weight on his lap warm and soothing even as he squirmed around, trying to get comfortable. 

His shift started at midday, but for the moment, he was a free man, he could relax, savor this time with his family. This was what it was all about.


	2. Interlude: John and Mary

The memories come back to haunt me, they haunt me like a curse  
Is a dream a wish that don’t come true, or is it something worse?  
The River – Bruce Springsteen 

 

 _Mary Winchester was the seventh and final victim of Jon Finch, the Midwestern serial killer known as The Yellow-Eyed Demon. She was drugged, tortured and strangled in her home on the evening of November 2nd, 1983 while her husband, John, was forced to watch, paralyzed by a drug administered by Finch while the couple slept. The couple’s two sons, Dean, 4, and Sammy, 6 months, were in the house at the time, and slept through most of their parents’ ordeal, though the actions of Dean in escaping the house with his baby brother did lead to Finch’s eventual capture and incarceration._

Sam knew the entire Wikipedia entry by heart. He’d read all the newspaper reports, seen the news clippings; the photographs from the crime scene were embedded in his memory more solidly than the Pledge of Allegiance. After all, the life and crimes of the self-styled Yellow-Eyed Demon, real name: Jon Finch, were the main discussion topic for his Criminology class during his second year of college. He could still remember how Professor Gregory asked him to stay behind after his first class, his middle-aged face flushed with embarrassment and his words a torrent of awkward apologies. 

“I’m so sorry; I didn’t realize until I read the attendance list and saw your name. But it’s got to be, there can’t be many other Samuel Winchesters of the correct age in this state." 

He interrupted him at that point to the guy’s immense relief, shrugging coolly. “You don’t need to apologize, Professor, you’re hardly the first person to make the connection.” 

And that was most definitely the truth. Both he and Dean had been accorded a macabre notoriety over the years, their mother’s death and the circumstances around it being such a pop culture standby. It had even been made into a Lifetime movie, though Dean had never seen it and Sam only once, one night after a lot of pot and Dutch courage, and it had been too laughably bad to take seriously. 

“Well, uh, I’ve been thinking about changing the syllabus for several years,” the Professor continued, his eyes locked on some point to the left of Sam’s shoulder, “we could do with some fresh case studies to work on, and thanks to the internet, everybody already knows the story.” 

“Don’t go altering your syllabus on my account,” he said sharply. “I knew what was on it before I signed up for the class. I knew I’d have to study this – uh, my mom’s case.” 

The professor’s mouth opened and closed a few times while his fingers played with the papers he was haphazardly stuffing into his briefcase. “I’m not sure about the ethics surrounding this, we – what I mean to say is - normally, there is a lot of discussion around the night of Finch’s capture, which of course is also the night that your mother,” he broke off for a moment, unable to finish the sentence. 

He reassured Professor Gregory that he had no intention of being treated any differently from any other of the students just because of who he was, and in the end, he reluctantly agreed to go ahead with the class as he always had. 

His old boyfriend, David, called him crazy when Sam explained what they were studying in Criminology 204, and that he had no intention of ditching the class. As for Dean, well, Sam never told Dean about any of it, and he swore David to secrecy, not that David and Dean were ever in the habit of exchanging secrets with each other. But he knew that in Dean’s eyes, having anything to do with the case – with _him_ \- Finch - would be seen as unforgivable, a betrayal of their mom’s memory and their family history. 

Dean rarely spoke about Mom. Sure, they’d do their annual pilgrimage up to Lawrence on the anniversary of Dad’s death, leaving the boys with Jess for the day. They’d lay tulips (Mom’s favorite flowers) over her grave, the same spot they’d scattered their father’s ashes years earlier, and they’d talk about their parents. Dean dredging up the painful, childish memories he had of Mom, and Sam searching his own memory for the scant good memories he had of Dad. This was the only time Dean would willingly talk about Mom, and Sam would listen hard, soaking up every little detail Dean ever shared like he’d stored up the boxes of candy he’d gotten at Christmas, knowing it would be months before he’d ever taste anything that good again. 

Sam had no memories of his mother. She’d never been a real, flesh and blood person to him as she was to Dean or Dad. She was an image, a symbol of everything that had gone wrong with their lives, of everything they’d had taken away from them, and sometimes, deep down, there was a part of him that resented her for it, for being the person that Finch chose, his most celebrated victim, the Sharon Tate of Lawrence, Kansas. 

All of Finch’s victims were like Mom: young, attractive, suburban moms with young children. He’d being working as a tech at the office of Dr Connell, Sam’s pediatrician, in Lawrence when Mary Winchester came to his attention. He’d already killed six times before her: murders that were spread out over the Midwestern states over a period of twelve years, two women in Ohio, one in Indiana, one in Illinois, and two in Kansas, careful, premeditated murders that hadn’t even been linked until after Mom’s death, after he confessed in custody. He was smart, cunning, detailed and meticulous in his planning. Once he fixated on his chosen victim, he found out every scrap of information he could about her, gathering and hoarding it for months. 

Finch first came across Mom when she brought baby Sammy to Dr Connell’s for his new-born inoculations. He noticed her and became entranced, waiting over five months before he acted on the night of Sam’s six-month birthday. By that time, the store of information he had on Mom, on all four Winchesters, was staggering. The cops had found it all after he’d been captured: long-range photos of all four of them, all of Sam and Dean’s medical records copied from the doctor’s office, utility bills and other pieces of mail he’d stolen over the course of his five-month obsession. It was like a real-life version of Thomas Harris’ _Red Dragon_ , except this psycho wasn’t obsessed with William Blake, but with biblical demonology, with possession and devils and demons, with capturing and devouring what he saw as these perfect examples of motherhood, the pictures of biblical demons and angels, the occult symbols and satanic sigils vying for space on the walls of his apartment with the stolen pictures of Mary Winchester and her family. 

Once Finch gained access to their house, he went straight up to their parents’ room and there he injected both Mom and Dad with the paralyzing drugs that kept them immobile but alive and lucid throughout the entire ordeal. He propped Dad up in his marital bed, rearranged his paralyzed, helpless body like he was a life-size puppet, making sure that Dad would have the best view possible of what happened next. Making sure that Dad had no other choice than to watch when Finch sliced into his wife’s soft, white skin, when he penetrated and raped her with his strap-on dildo, when he sheared off her beautiful long blond hair and licked over the cuts he’d made in her face, blood dribbling down his chin, the yellow contact lenses he wore to play the part of his demonic alter-ego making his eyes glow like an animal’s, a Francis Bacon portrait in the flesh. 

Dean woke up in the middle of the night after a nightmare and found himself in a real-life nightmare a billion times more horrifying than anything his four-year-old mind could’ve dreamed up. Dean crept to their parents’ room, looking for a hug and a kiss and the reassurance of their mother’s loving embrace, but he found something else: a picture that Dean never managed to exorcise from his traumatized memory, the one that still haunted his nightmares. Finch crouching over his mother, yellow-eyes shining eerily and terribly in the half-light, knife glinting just as terribly in his hand, Mom’s blood dripping from the blade, Mom’s dead, staring eyes glued lifelessly open. Finch didn’t notice Dean creep away, too transfixed by his victim, but Dean ran straight to his baby brother’s nursery, grabbed Sammy from his crib and fled from the house and into the night, running straight to the Jennings’ porch next door where he hammered his little fists on the front door until their neighbors woke up. 

This last part was public knowledge. A four year old boy bringing down a psychotic killer. There was nothing better than that, and the photo of Dean standing on the front lawn in his pajamas with his baby brother in his arms had made the international press the following day, becoming a staple of True Crime bestsellers ever after. 

Being forced to watch his wife’s rape and murder while he lay drugged and powerless had changed their Dad forever. Sam vaguely knew from Dad’s better days and from Bobby’s stories that Dad hadn’t always been how he was. He knew that Dad had been a hero, a marine, a tough sonofabitch who had stared death in the face more than once in his two tours in Vietnam. But the Dad he knew for the rest of his life was a broken man. Of course it didn’t help that it wasn’t just about Dad losing his wife in the most horrific way possible, it was losing his wife in such a public fashion, to police and reporters and TV crews, to members of the public with opinions and aspersions and suspicions. And Dad had no one to comfort him, just two small boys and headlines on every news program. It wasn’t surprising that shit got so bad.

Not long after Mom’s death, he was institutionalized for the first time and Sam and Dean were taken into foster-care. There were no convenient surviving relatives to take them in, all their grandparents being dead and Dad’s one estranged sister living in Canada and unwilling to get involved. There was only Bobby, Dad’s old platoon sergeant and best friend from the marines, and thank God for that because Sam was pretty sure, if it hadn’t been for Bobby then he and Dean would’ve spent all of their childhoods in care, and mostly likely gotten split up at some point. But Bobby came to Dad’s rescue, helped him get a decent lawyer and get his kids back, and after that, he arranged a job for him, a new life on the other side of the state, a new life in the town of Corn. 

Sometimes Sam wondered how his life would’ve turned out if Mom had lived, if he and Dean had been raised by two sane and healthy parents. But imagining himself with a mom and a dad was as inconceivable as imagining himself as a straight guy. His childhood shaped the person he was: stubborn, resilient, wary of outsiders and unhealthily attached to his brother. Perhaps he would still be all those things if he’d been raised by two parents, but somehow he doubted it. 

He and Dean lost out on a lot, not just a mom, but the kind of stability most kids take for granted, the knowledge and comfort that your parents would always be there for you. They never had that. Dad was a distant, broken and frequently terrifying figure in Sam’s early life, and in later years, when he was a teenager, a shabby, raving and frequently drunk embarrassment in a bathrobe. Sam never invited friends home, too ashamed of their dirty, threadbare house and rambling, crazy father, and Dean did so rarely, only when he had no other option, over-strict fathers or cold weather driving him and his current girl-of-the-moment back to his own bedroom. 

Years later, Sam felt guilty when he remembered his old attitude towards Dad, the shame and contempt he’d felt for the guy who was his (only) parent. It wasn’t as if Dad could help what he was, but as a kid and a teenager that had never registered with him. He’d preferred not to notice when Dad did clean up his act, when he kept a job and a regular paycheck for more than six months, when he remembered their birthdays or turned up to Dean’s football games or complimented Sam on his grades. Oh, yeah, he resented his father when he was a kid, hated watching Dean put him to bed after Dad’d sunk all their money into the bottom of a whisky bottle when he knew, he fucking _knew_ that he wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol with his meds. He hated waking up in the middle of the night and listening to him sobbing and weeping and clamoring, shouting out their mother’s name as Dean – ‘cause it was always Dean – tried to calm him down with soothing, soft words, as if Dad were the child and not the parent. Afterwards, Dean would come into his room, perch on the edge of his bed with huge, dry eyes, and reach out to brush his hair from his eyes, murmuring, “It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay.”

Dean made up for Dad.


	3. Chapter 3

_Living on a thin line;  
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do_  
Living on a Thin Line – The Kinks 

 

A few months ago, to Dean’s dismay, Jonah started asking questions about why Uncle Sammy dated guys instead of girls, and if Uncle Sammy was gay, why did that also mean he was lame? Luckily, Sam was more than willing to sit down with the kid and explain carefully with diagrams and pop culture references why it was perfectly normal and natural to be attracted to boys instead of girls, and why he should never use the word gay to mean lame, whatever the other kids said. He then took him on a special trip into the city to the big, gay bookstore his old boyfriend David had used to manage and introduced him all around to everybody’s mutual glee. Jonah loved being the center of attention and naturally, all of Sam’s gay friends had equally adored Jonah. He came home full of excitable stories about the Todds and how someone called Wayne who was really fun and cool had given him a book called _So Your Daddies are Gay: A guide for kids of gay parents, written by kids of gay parents._

Naturally, Jonah being Jonah, he took the damn book to school to present in Show & Tell which led to Dean and Sam being called in to see the school principal and be lectured about the suitability of certain reading material on young minds, and that, in turn, led to a huge fight. 

Sam insisted that they remove Jonah from the school immediately and place him somewhere where he wasn’t going to be indoctrinated by “petty-minded, prejudiced, supposed educators”. 

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s sure not getting indoctrinated at home!” Dean retorted sarcastically. 

“What are you trying to say, Dean?” 

“You. Filling his head with all this shit. Why you gotta make things so difficult? He’s already different from other kids, why’d you gotta make it worse? Now they all think he’s got two gay dads!” 

“And you think that’s something to be ashamed of?” Sam demanded, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

“No, I don’t think it’s something to be ashamed of, but it’s not true!” 

“So, what about me?” 

“What about you?”

“I don’t count then? Is that right? Is that what you’re trying to say?” 

Dean sighed wearily, “Sam, what the fuck is this about?” 

Sam’s nostrils flared, lips pinched together, as he glared at his brother. “I’m just their uncle, right, Dean? What I think doesn’t matter ‘cause I’m not their Dad like you, I’m just the sucker who’s helping you raise them. Who gives a fuck what I think?” 

“What? No! That’s bullshit!” Dean protested. But Sam was pissed, chest heaving up and down and color flooding into his cheeks as he stood in the doorway to the big den, huge shoulders blocking the room behind from view. 

“You know what, Dean: fuck you! Fuck you for not standing up for me! I always thought,” he broke off, laughed bitterly, nodding to himself. “But, whatever, I get it now. You’ve never been okay with me – with what I am – and now you wanna hide it! Well, go ahead, do what the fuck you want, ‘cause I’m out of here!” 

He left. 'Course he fucking left, Sam always carried through on his threats, Sam never backed down in anything. 

Two days later and Simon was crying and refusing to go to sleep because Uncle Sammy wasn’t there to tuck him in, and Jonah was moping around, looking crushed and hurt, thinking Sam had left because he’d gotten into trouble at school. And as for himself, well, it was bad enough having to beg Jess to take the kids after school ‘cause there was no Sam and he couldn’t afford to get off work early, but it was later in the evening when he sat down to watch the game with a beer, turning his head to make a comment to Sam only to find a big, empty space next to him that Sam’s absence really hit him. And then Simon woke up screaming from a nightmare, his hoarse, rusty vocal chords unsettling and eerie in the big, dark house. 

He gave up on the game and carried Simon into his own bed and held him close, a big fuck-you to Sam and his parenting manuals and _his boundaries, Dean, you gotta give them boundaries_ crap. After all, how many times had Sam crawled into bed with him when they were kids and it was too dark or there was a monster in his closet or under his bed? Fuck it, it hadn’t done them any harm. Except for the fact that Sam had been gone for two days and he was already missing him to a degree that was slightly disturbing. 

The next morning, Jonah woke him up by jumping onto the bed beside him and demanding to know when Uncle Sammy would get back from his trip, and Dean felt like a heel for promising, “Soon, buddy, soon,” just to get the kid to shut the fuck up. 

The same evening at bath time as he distractedly watched Jonah pouring buckets of water over Simon’s head and cackling as Simon tried to push his big brother and tormentor away, he had a flashback to his own eight-year-old self washing four-year-old Sammy’s hair. He knew that he had to get Sam back, even if it meant admitting that he was completely and utterly the one in the wrong (which he wasn’t). 

Luckily, he didn’t need to call Sam to know where he was. He knew Sam better than anyone, which was how he knew that Sam would be at the big, gay bookstore in the city. Sam’s first port of call in any crisis was always his big brother, but in this case when he guessed his big brother was the cause of the crisis (at least in Sam’s eyes) then Sam would always retreat to the bookstore. Sam did the books there, one of the cash-making side ventures, alongside the SAT coaching, ASL classes and TV reviews for that gay website, that he’d taken on since losing his job at the DA’s Office two years earlier. Dean had always been wary of the bookstore, (wasn’t it taking Jonah there that had started up all this shit in the first place?) seeing it as foreign territory (David territory) but it was Sam’s safe haven. 

When Dean walked into the bookstore, a twinky-looking teenage boy with Goth-black hair and dramatic eyeliner looked up from the copy of _Us Weekly_ he was reading, and gave Dean an enormous and overly enthusiastic smile. 

“Hi, can I help you? Please say I can.” 

“Uh, yeah, hi. I’m here to see Sam. I’m his brother, Dean. Is he around?” 

The kid didn’t reply at first, just stared at him in a way that would do a Customs official at Tel Aviv airport proud. “You’re Sam’s brother? Fuuuuck, dude, Sam talks about you, like, all the freakin’ time, but he never mentioned, like, what a total DILF you were.”

Dean was rendered speechless for a moment, because... no, just, no... DILF? What the fuck? He was not a fucking DILF. 

Seriously, he was not that old. 

He licked his lips, muttered, “So, uh, Sam? He around?” 

“Oh, yeah, Sam,” said the kid, still staring at him, and seriously, was he not capable of blinking? “He’s in the back. But, dude, like, before you go – promise that you’ll call me before you guys kiss and make up. ‘Cause I totally want a front seat for that shit.” 

This time Dean’s mouth really did fall open. “Fuck, man, you do know we’re brothers, right?” 

“Oh yeah,” he sighed wistfully, “but, like, that just makes it way, _way_ hotter.” 

“Right. Yeah, well, I’ll. Thanks,” Dean stuttered, and beat a retreat to the back of the store, feeling the kid’s eyes on his ass the entire time. 

“The back” seemed to be a glorified storeroom with a desk and a computer and boxes and boxes of books with titles like _The Back Passage, Manhandled,_ and _Backdoor Friends_. And Sam had taken Jonah here? Fuck. 

But he wasn’t here to fight with Sammy about that kinda shit, quite the opposite. He was here to make-up with him, beg him to come home, on his knees if necessary, and, hey, at least that would give that freaky kid a thrill. 

Sam was bent over a laptop, looking even more of a ginormous dork than usual in the tiny, cramped room. His stupidly long legs and arms and shoulders seemingly taking up every inch of space that wasn’t donated to piles of gay erotica. 

Dean coughed and knocked a beat on the open door. Sam’s head snapped up, eyes landing on him and going wide with surprise. 

“Hey,” he greeted Sam. 

Sam heaved out an enormous sigh and asked, “Dean, what are you doing here?” 

“What d’you think? I’m here to beg you to come home.” 

“Beg me?” 

“Fuck, yeah. You gotta come back. We need you. Simon hasn’t slept in two days; both of them think you left because they did something wrong.” 

“You did tell them that wasn’t the case, right? You’re not letting them think that?” Sam said, looking concerned. 

“Of course I did! But they’re kids, shit like this happens and they blame themselves. They don’t understand that it was just us having one of our stupid fights.” 

“It wasn’t a stupid fight,” Sam said seriously. He sighed and closed the laptop, getting slowly to his feet to lean against one of the piles of books. “This is important to me, Dean. All this,” he raised his hand, waving it to take in the storeroom, the entire freaking store, “this is me. I’m gay, but I think sometimes you like to conveniently forget that, or you fool yourself into forgetting it.” 

“Sam, c’mon, I don’t forget that. Look, just–“ he hesitated, licked his lips. “Okay, so, yeah, sometimes I don’t think of you as Sam, _the gay dude_. But you gotta see that isn’t ‘cause I’m homophobic or ‘cause I have a problem with it. It’s ‘cause you’re way more than that, you’re my dorky kid brother, you’re Sammy!” 

Sam’s mouth quirked gently and he bent his head, stupid, floppy hair falling across his face. Dean stepped forward, shuffling past five piled boxes until he was in the room, standing in front of his brother, the two of them taking up the rest of the available floor space. He placed his hand on Sam’s bicep and squeezed, causing Sam to raise his head and meet his eyes. 

“I know that you’re just as miserable without us as we are without you. Come home, Sammy, we miss you.” 

Slowly the little smile at the corner of Sam’s mouth broadened, until it was one of those startling Sam grins, the ones that Jonah could replicate so dangerously. He leaned forward; his head slumped onto Dean’s shoulder, forehead nuzzling against Dean’s neck as his arms slid around Dean’s waist, pulling him into a hug. Dean let himself relax into the touch, enjoy the sensation of holding Sam so close. Sam loved to hug, all that touchy-feely crap, that was Sammy. Throughout their childhood he had pretty much indulged Sam, so, hell, whatever, he was kind of used to it, and he was happy to indulge Sam now. Besides, it was actually kind of okay, nice almost, comforting to have Sam hold him so close, a warm, calming sensation in his belly like this was how it was supposed to be. 

They sprang apart at the ratatat of beats on the open door. Dean stumbled against one of the tables of books, feeling his cheeks start to heat up annoyingly, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

“No, please don’t stop! Like, seriously, don’t stop!” 

Fuck, it was the freaky kid again. Dean scowled and raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling suddenly self-conscious and really, really out of place. 

“Shut up,” said Sam to the kid, but he sounded amused, and not at all embarrassed. “Give us a minute, will you?” 

“I’ll give you as long as you want,” the kid said with a sly, knowing tilt to his voice that Dean was really not appreciating. He risked a glance at his brother, but Sam was still looking amused, rolling his eyes at the kid’s back and getting up to push the door closed as far as it could go. 

“That dude freaks me out,” Dean said with a shudder. “I think he’s totally serious about wanting to watch us make out.” 

“'Course he is,” replied Sam matter-of-factly, “you ask most gay guys what their ultimate fantasy is and I bet a lot of them say twins or brothers.” 

“Is that your ultimate fantasy?” 

Sam hesitated for a second; Dean catching that deer-in-the-headlights expression in his brother’s eyes, before Sam ducked his head, his cheeks staining bright red. “I, Dean." 

“Dude, it is, isn’t it?” he joked. “Sam, you sly dog.” 

“Whatever,” Sam retorted, the petulant twist to his mouth telling Dean that he had hit some serious pay-dirt. “You telling me you’ve never fantasized about fucking identical twins or a threesome with sisters?” 

“Well, yeah, naturally. But that’s different.” 

“It’s not different. This is what I’m trying to tell you. And if you were totally okay with me – with the gay stuff – then you’d get that. I know that you try, but…” he broke off for a second and raised one hand to tug at his hair. “Look, I’m gay, and Dean, it’s really fucking hard sometimes. But I’m not gonna hide, I wanna fight for what I believe in, for the right to be free to be what I am. This is Kansas and anti-gay discrimination laws have only been around for two years – two fucking years!” 

“Dude, c’mon, you don’t gotta preach this stuff to me. I’m on your side. You know that. I’ll support you whatever.” 

Sam gave him a rueful smile, letting his hand drop to his side, to the desk, the sprawl of papers by his laptop. “Okay, so then you’ll understand why it’s so important to me that Jonah and Simon get all this too. That they understand that being gay is normal and that they’re not – not ashamed of their big gay uncle -” he trailed off with a self-conscious snort. 

Dean felt his chest clench up, the anxious but hopeful expression on Sam’s face doing strange things to his insides. “Of course they’re never gonna be ashamed of you. Don’t ever think that. They love you. Seriously, they miss you so much; I’m beginning to feel like a spare part.”

“Yeah?” Sam lifted his head, a tentative, hopeful quirk of his lip as their eyes met. 

Dean swallowed, feeling the weight lift from his stomach. “Yeah. Now, can we go already?” 

On the drive back to the house, Sam was quiet, looking out the window with a pensive expression on his face. After a while, he sighed and turned his head, eyes settling on Dean’s profile. 

“What now?” snapped Dean. It was unnerving having Sam watch him like that, though he should be used to it. Sam watched him like that all the damn time, as if Dean was the most interesting thing in his eye-line. 

“I was thinking,” said Sam slowly, “this fight we had, it was about you and me and how you want to raise Jonah and Simon. That’s what was upsetting me, but then it occurred to me that it might not matter at all. I mean, you’re still young…” He broke off, worried his lip before he continued: “And, well, at the moment I feel like you and me – like we’re both raising Jonah and Simon together – like I’m the co-parent, I mean, that was what we told Jonah’s school.” 

“Sam, what are you trying to say? I thought you were happy like this, being a parent? Helping me raise them?” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course I am. But, Dean, I’m just their uncle. You’re their dad, you’re always gonna be their dad, and you might get married again." 

“Not a fucking chance!” Dean snorted. 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Yeah, man, yeah, I do. Look at my track record: I’ve been married twice, well, three times if you count Cora, ‘cause that was like a goddamn marriage. Jesus. Three times, and all of them were monumental fuck-ups, and I’m only 31. That’s pretty pathetic.” 

Sam huffed out a half-laugh, “Dean-”

“No, listen to me,” Dean paused, licked his lips, trying to find the words, the reassurance because he could see where this was going now, and he had to cut it off right now, derail the pity and panic train for good. “I’m not interested in getting married again, or getting serious with some chick. Casual sex, yeah, bring it, but anything more than that, no, not now. It’s not worth it. I’ve got the boys to think about, and they’ve had enough bad shit happen to them, they need stability, they need me and they need you. You are way more to them than just an uncle, they love you, you gotta see that.” 

“Yeah, I do, I do see that,” Sam said quietly. 

There was a heavy silence for a couple of minutes, then Dean cleared his throat, said: “Look, I get it. But, seriously, Sammy, you don’t gotta worry about anything. The way things are right now – well, I don’t know about you – but I like it. Me and you and the kids, that works. And me and you - we’re a great team, we always have been – why would I want to change that?” 

 

That had all happened a couple of months ago, and since then, things had shifted into another gear between them, as if they’d settled into something, had some big unspoken agreement. Ever since Jess had left him, Dean had been half expecting Sam to go too, to go off and start his own life, find someone to replace David at long last. Hearing Sam finally admit how important it was to him to be part of their family, to be a parent to Jonah and Simon, had been a relief, the most welcome news in a really long fucking time. 

The problem was that he knew he shouldn’t be feeling this way. It was selfish of him to expect Sam to put his life on hold, to dedicate all his time to his brother and his brother’s kids. Sam deserved better than that, he deserved someone of his own, someone just to himself, maybe some perfect guy with whom he could adopt a couple of Asian babies ‘cause Sam was an awesome father.

He always buried those kinds of thoughts whenever they insisted on cropping up and banging against his conscience, instead comforting himself by thinking that Sam still wasn’t ready for another relationship, that he still wasn’t over David and that entire shit-storm. Besides, he knew Sam, and he knew how important it was to Sam that Jonah and Simon have the kind of childhood the two of them had been denied. And more importantly, Sam loved Jonah and Simon like his own kids, like his own blood – hell, they _were_ his own blood, he could see Sam in Jonah’s smile or in Simon’s eyes, in Jonah’s epic stubbornness and Simon’s quick intelligence. Jonah and Simon loved their Uncle Sammy, and Dean, well, he just needed to know that his brother and his kids were happy; everything else was just gravy. 

 

**

 

On Saturdays, Dean and Sam played football for the Corn Raiders, part of the Southeastern Kansas league. The team coach was a staggeringly superstitious dude called Greg who took the job very, _very_ seriously. It was thanks to Greg’s superstitious nature that Dean was still wearing the same freaking knee pads he’d tried out in eight years earlier. The things were so decrepit by now, they were practically falling off him and had to be kept on with swathes of ace bandages. 

He sighed irritably as he secured the bandages in place, moving his knees gingerly as he got to his feet to stretch out, rolling the shoulder of his throwing arm, and glancing over at the crowd through the chain-link fence. For an amateur league, they always drew big crowds, but then football was practically a religion in Corn, and during the high school’s off-season this was all there was. He spotted Jonah and Simon easily, sitting either side of Bobby on the second row. He waved in their direction, but as usual, they were completely uninterested in anything happening on the field, instead Jonah’s attention was fixed on the ancient but well-loved iPod that had once been Sam’s, and Simon’s on _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_. 

“Hey, you ready?” 

Sam’s voice drew his attention away from the boys, and he turned to see his brother carefully arranging his hair before even more carefully putting on his helmet. 

“As I’ll ever be,” he answered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Sam’s efforts. Jesus, sometimes his brother really was incredibly gay.

He looked forward to these games all week; there was a part of him that only woke up when he played football. He’d played it in high school, helped their school to the state final, gotten handpicked for the scholarship to KU off the back of it. Dad had been so proud of that, he’d gone to most of his games, the biggest interest he’d ever shown in either of them, ‘cause he’d barely made a parents evening or any of Sam’s track meets or debating competitions. But football had been his and Dad’s thing, the one thing they could talk about without running into any awkward silences, and even now, after Dad had been dead so long, his mind always flew to his father when he stepped onto the field. 

He’d dropped out of college, realized soon after getting there that college football was way different from high school football, and although he’d been the big deal at school, he was one amongst many at college. If he was brutally honest with himself then he knew that Dad’s sickness and their family money problems while being entirely real and urgent back then, had also been convenient excuses for him to quit while he was ahead, to not let himself experience the failure of never getting his dream of being pro, and instead to go for something that was equally dear to his heart - like becoming a police detective. Of course, the fucking irony was that eleven years later, he still hadn’t made detective. 

Whatever, the great thing about football was that for an hour or more, he didn’t have to think about any of that crap. He just had to think about getting the ball to the other end of the field and scoring more TDs than the other team, and luckily, he pretty much rocked at that, being by far the best player on the team, probably in the entire goddamn league, though he did say so himself. He caught Sam’s eye as they went into the first huddle, laying out their first play to the guys. If he was honest with himself he enjoyed playing football now more than he had in the past, even more than senior year when he’d led the school to the state championship. The photo of him holding the trophy aloft still decorated the halls of the high school; none of the teams who’d followed had ever managed to repeat his success. But now it was different, and he knew that a good deal of his enjoyment was due to Sam’s presence on the team. Sam hadn’t played football in school: soccer or track had been more his sort of thing. But Sam had tried out a few years ago, giving into Dean’s insistent nagging, and had turned out to be awesome on defense. He was solid and big and quick, and when Sam was on his game no one got past him. 

This team turned out to be the best opposition they’d faced all season, and in the end, they won by just one field goal, continuing their undefeated record, only two games away from their inevitable league triumph. Dean met Sam’s eyes as they shook hands with their opponents, throwing his brother an exhausted and exhilarated grin. 

After football, their usual ritual was barbecue in the back yard, Bobby bringing the meat, and Sam getting the alcohol from a fuck-buddy of his who owned a bar in the city. Usually, Jess or Jeannie and her husband, Steve, joined them, but tonight it was just Bobby, and after they’d put the boys to bed, the three of them sat out at the old picnic table in the middle of the yard with their beers, the bug repellant candle smoking from its spot in the middle of the table as they shot the shit. 

Bobby owned a scrap yard about five miles from their house, just outside the town limits, and when they were kids the place had been their second home. During Dad’s bad periods, Bobby had been the one to calmly step in and provide adult supervision when it was needed, a convenient guardian figure to parade in front of Child Services, and one of the only people capable of dealing with Dad when it got really bad. 

Bobby took off shortly after ten, clapping the two of them on the shoulders as he made his slow, steady way up the front drive to his beat-up pickup. Dean waved him off and closed the front door behind him, coming back into the kitchen to see Sam throwing their empty bottles into the recycling. He got a couple more bottles out the refrigerator and the two of them made their way into the big den. 

“You wanna see what’s on? Maybe catch SNL?” Dean asked. 

Sam snorted, “Nah, s’total shit these days.” 

They drifted into a silence that he supposed most people would call comfortable. He finished off his beer, letting the bottle slide to the floor, and got up to fetch them a couple more. He was feeling loose and relaxed, his limbs sinking into the old, saggy couch, vision gone kinda hazy. 

Sam turned his head towards him, cheek smushed up against the back of the couch; he regarded Dean lazily for a moment, then grinned, sudden and drunken. 

“Who’d you go gay for: Indiana Jones, Jack Bauer, James Bond or Han Solo?” 

“Which Bond?” 

“Oh – I dunno – whichever one you like best. Daniel Craig?” 

Dean gave the question some thought, licking his lips as his eyes drifted over his brother’s face; it was ridiculous how familiar Sam’s face was, way more familiar than his own. “Aren’t Han Solo and Indiana Jones like the same guy?” 

“Hell, no!” protested Sam with drunken sincerely. “I mean – yeah – it’s the same actor, but they’re totally different people. Indiana Jones has a PhD in archeology.” 

Dean snorted and shook his head, “You’re such a dork.” 

“Whatever.” He prodded Dean in the arm with one of his freakishly long fingers. “You gotta pick, dude. Who’d it be?” 

“Easy, Han Solo, no contest.” 

“Hmmm,” Sam nodded pensively, “why?” 

“Dude’s cool as hell, Sammy. Plus, you know, I’m kinda taking it for granted that he’d be up for a threesome with Princess Leia – ‘cause she’d totally be into it.” He leered at his brother while Sam rolled his eyes at him. “Whatever, you know it’s true. Anyway, who’d you pick?” 

“Oh, Han Solo, same as you. He’s hot.” 

“Heh, heh, heh, you and me, pickin’ the same guy, huh?” 

“Who’d’ve thought it.” 

Dean shrugged, “Nah, s’not that weird. We picked the same chick.” 

“Huh?” 

“Duh, Jess.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Sam took a long pull on his beer, turned his head, eyes blinking blearily at Dean. “Forgot that.” 

“Dude, how’d you forget that? She was only the chick you lost your freakin’ virginity to. You dated for, like, two years, right?” 

“Yeah, ‘bout that I guess. But you know, I always kinda knew. That there was something missing.”

“No dick?” 

Sam huffed out a laugh, “Yeah, no dick. If she’d had a dick, she’d’ve been perfect.” He paused, made a face. “Had to have gotten rid of her tits, though.” 

“Whoa, no! No freakin’ way, man. Jess has amazing tits.” He held his hands up, mimicking grabbing them, shooting Sam a drunken leer, “I remember cupping them in my hands when we fucked. Jesus, so fuckin’ good.” He leaned back in the couch, head slumped against the cushions, “Man, I miss fuckin’ her. We could go all night. I remember one time, we did go all night. Like, I must’ve come about four times, and this one time, I had her up against the wall, and she had her legs wrapped around my waist–“ 

“Dean.” 

Sam was regarding him with a lopsided frown, that prissy Sammy look made even more ridiculous by the drunken slant of his eyes and his flushed cheeks. 

Dean barked out a laugh, reached out to punch him lightly in the arm. “Such a prude, Sammy.” 

“Fuck off.” 

There was a moment’s silence while they sipped their beers. Dean felt Sam turn his head again, his eyes boring into him, making the side of his face feel itchy. 

“You know, when you and Jess were together – did you ever, uh, did you ever think about when I was with her?” 

Dean frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Sam hesitated, licked his lips. He looked uncertain, jittery, his fingers playing with the label on his beer bottle. “I don’t know. Just. I thought about it: about how both of us ended up with the same girl? And, uh, how it must’ve been for her, like, being able to compare us? You know, this one time, me and Jess were having the threesome conversation, like, who’d we’d most like to invite to have a threesome with us–“ 

“Like I said, Princess Leia,” Dean said promptly. 

Sam sighed, his martyred, uber-patient sigh and flicked him a look, “I wasn’t looking for input, Dean.” 

“Whatever, way I figure it – she’s all kindsa kinky in the sack – you can see it in her eyes.” 

“Oh my God, you know when you say shit like that it really doesn’t surprise me that you’ve been divorced twice.” 

“Yeah, but you still love me.” He turned his most endearing smile on his brother. Sam stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, mouth twitching at the corners. God, but Sam was so easy. 

“Only ‘cause I have to, ‘cause it’s, like, family duty.” 

“Always such a bitch.” 

“And you’re a jerk.” 

“Yeah? You’re just spoiling for a fight, aren’tcha? You know I’d take you down, little brother.” 

Sam laughed out loud, a throaty, genuine laugh that had Dean smiling involuntarily, unable to stop grinning at the delighted look on his brother’s face. 

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sam sighed, and gave him a superior smile. “You think you could beat me? Seriously? You seen this?” 

He placed his beer on the battered coffee table, movements only a little slurred and haphazard, and raised his arm, flexing one of his enormous biceps, sinewy muscle bunching up like a cartoon Popeye. 

Dean gulped, stared; he licked his lips, met Sam’s confident gaze. “Dude, that’s freakin’ obscene.” 

“You’re so jealous,” Sam said smugly. 

“You wish.” 

“Bite me.” 

“Nah, you bite me, you gay dudes like that.” 

“Okay, if you say so.” 

Sam raised an eyebrow and gave him a cool, smug look, before he pounced, pinning Dean to the couch with one smooth move. Dean yelped and struggled beneath him, but Sam was fucking huge and a fucking linebacker and built like it, with fiendishly long arms that were snaking under Dean’s body and holding him in place, trapping him down into the balding couch cushions. Dean struggled some more, but he was making no headway at all. Sam had him trapped better than he’d trapped that poor running back during the game. 

“Say uncle!” Sam cried, laughing hysterically. 

“No! No fucking way!” came Dean’s muffled response. 

He squirmed some more, bucking his hips up and sending a couple of empty bottles, the remote control and a cushion tumbling to the floor, but Sam was holding firm, and _goddamn him_ , was still laughing, like this was the funniest fucking thing he’d ever seen. 

“Ngihghth!” squawked Dean, and scrambled one arm free; he reached up, grabbed a handful of Sam’s crazy hair, and tugged, hard. Sam yelped loudly and Dean sniggered, taking advantage of his brother’s distraction to squirm one leg free and kick Sam in one hard meaty thigh, free hand still wrapped tight in Sam’s hair. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll let you go. Jesus!” Sam bitched, sitting back on his haunches and frowning down at Dean. 

“Ha! I win!” 

“No, you so don’t,” retorted Sam. “You fight like a girl. You pulled my hair.” 

“No, I just figured out one of your weaknesses and exploited it,” he shot back with a smug grin. “S’your fault for having such stupid hair.” 

“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes, picked up the couch cushions that had wriggled free and batted them back into place. “You fight like Jonah.” 

“Well, I’m gonna take that as a compliment ‘cause my kid rocks.” 

Sam’s expression got softer, that fond curl to his lip as he attempted to flick his bangs out of his eyes. “Yeah, okay, he is pretty awesome.” 

Dean grinned back at him, settling back into the couch and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “Sometimes I look at him, you know, and I can’t believe that he’s really mine – that both of them are mine. I mean, who’da thought it – me and Cora – producing a kid like that.” He huffed out a long breath. “I mean – me and Reiko – that I kinda get, she was smart, and Simon’s so smart too – got her genes alright. But me and Cora. Shit, man, who’da thought anything good woulda come out of that train wreck?” 

“Dean, c’mon, it wasn’t all that bad.” 

“Really?” Dean raised one eyebrow, sardonic and disbelieving. “Dude, you hated her.” 

“I didn’t _hate_ her.” 

“Uh-huh. Sure you didn’t.” 

“Whatever. S’not like you ever made an effort to like David.” 

“’Cause I knew he was no good for you, Sammy.” 

“I know,” Sam sighed wistfully, this sad little look on his face, “but I did love him.” 

“Course you did,” Dean said matter-of-factly. He leaned in and prodded Sam’s chest with one finger: “But he wasn’t good enough for you. No way good enough for _my_ brother.” He gave Sam a bleary grin. Sam’s face was still red from their earlier fight and all the beer they’d been drinking, hell, his own face was probably as red as a fucking beet too. Still, it kinda looked good on Sam, made his eyes light up and shine, his mouth loose and easy and not pursed up and stressed as he so often was. Sammy needed to relax more, that had always been his problem. 

He dragged his finger over Sam’s chest, tracing from nipple to nipple, aware of just how hard Sam’s body felt through his thin cotton t-shirt. It still amazed him how big and cut and fucking ripped his little brother was; there was still a part of him that expected to see this pudgy little kid when he looked at Sam and was continually surprised by this enormous, muscled dude in his place. He traced his fingertip back again, across and down, over Sam’s stomach and abs, towards his belly button. Sam’s belly button used to stick-out, and he could picture Sam at five and six, those tight thrift t-shirts outlining his plump belly with its sticking-out belly button. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him now, just hard lean muscle. 

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam whispered.

He froze, his finger hovering just over Sam’s belly button. Shit, he’d been practically caressing his brother’s chest, like he was _feeling him up_. He swallowed and snatched his hand away, not daring to meet Sam’s eyes, feeling the blush spread over his cheeks. 

“Dean,” Sam repeated, his voice low and cracked and nearly unrecognizable.

Dean swallowed again and slowly raised his head; he blinked and tried to smile. “Man, I am so fuckin' drunk.” 

Sam nodded, looking oddly disappointed, then he too gave a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, we, uh, I guess we should hit the sack.” 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed shakily. 

He watched Sam pry himself off the couch, stumbling as he bent to pick up their empty bottles and leave the room, treading soft and slippery in his thick socks, the hems of his overlong jeans spilling over his feet, the low waistband exposing a couple of inches of black boxer briefs. There was a crash of glass as Sam tipped the bottles into the recycling, then the soft pufft-pufft sound of Sam’s footsteps as he came back into the room. Dean tilted his head back to stare up at his brother; Sam was standing under the overhead light, looking really, really tall, his shadow falling over Dean. 

“I’m heading up,” he said finally, eyes meeting Dean’s for a fraction of a second. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Dean nodded; when he spoke his voice sounded strange in his ears. “Yeah, see you.” 

 

***

 

Dean was attempting to finish the paperwork on the cars he and Jeannie had pulled over two evenings earlier when he glanced up to see a leggy blond with big blue eyes and a deliciously even tan stroll into the station and head straight for his desk. Okay, so most of the time his job sucked, but there were occasionally some upsides. 

“I’ll let you handle this one then,” Jeannie commented dryly. 

“Huh?” He spared her a quick glance, but she was already leaving. He turned his most winning smile on the new arrival. “How can I help you, Miss?” 

She was called Amanda and she had lost her dog, a scrawny rat-like thing called Rory. She tilted her iPhone screen his way, showing him one of the hundred damn pictures she seemed to have. “I took this one on his birthday, he had such a lovely time, you could really tell that he understood what was happening, that he knew it was his special day.” 

Jesus. The only thing more boring than listening to other people talk about their problems was listening to other people talk about their pets. 

“Uh, listen, Miss uh…” Fuck, she had told him, but– 

“Maloney, Amanda Maloney,” she said reproachfully. 

He smiled at her, making the reproachful look waiver and then vanish completely under the full power of the Dean Winchester charm. 

“Yes, sorry, Miss Maloney, would you mind filling out this form here with your details and the description of, uh-” fuck it, what was that goddamn pooch called? “Rory? Just here, see.” He silently congratulated himself on the last-minute recall, and glanced out the window into the parking lot, an involuntary and this time genuine smile springing to his face when he saw Sam, Jonah and Simon climbing out the Impala and heading his way. 

“Hey, Dad!” 

He waved at Sam and the two boys. Amanda looked up from her form, her gaze tracking interestedly from him to Jonah, then to Simon and lingering over Sam until she was finally looking back at him again with wide eyes. 

“Are they your kids?” she asked as the three of them took a seat in the waiting area, Simon sliding up into Sam and twining his small foot around Sam’s leg like a vine around a tree trunk. 

“That’s right,” he said unable to disguise the note of pride in his voice. 

He watched them surreptitiously as he tried to concentrate on finishing off his reports. Something was fluttering in his belly, a soft tug-tug of warmth and affection and something else; something to do with the serious way Sam was talking to Jonah, his crazy, floppy hair falling across his face, impervious to Sam’s fruitless attempts to tuck it behind his ears, that small crease between his eyebrows that hadn’t changed since he was ten years old and trying to teach himself French, the enormous overachieving geek. Jonah looked so solemn, his big brown eyes locked on Sam and Sam’s fingers as he quickly signed like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, while Simon was curled up against Sam’s side, totally engrossed by the discussion between his brother and his uncle. Dean knew that his boys loved Sam, but sometimes he truly realized just how much they adored him. 

“I didn’t realize you were gay,” Amanda said conversationally. 

“Huh?” He jerked his gaze away from Sam and the boys, for some reason, he’d completely forgotten about her, but it seemed she’d been watching Sam and the two boys as closely as he had with that typical outsider’s fascination with sign language.

She gave him a knowing smile. “I thought you were trying to hit on me, but I see now I was way off. You have a really attractive family, you know.” 

“I, uh,” he stammered, unsure what to say to that. Sam glanced up, as if he could feel Dean’s eyes on him, and quirked his eyebrow into a questioning arc. Dean stared at him for a moment, then blinked and gave her a big fake smile, after all, it was the God’s honest truth, they _were_ an attractive family. “Thanks, sweetheart. We think so too.” 

After his shift, they went to their weekly support group meeting for gay families of children with hearing difficulties that Dean privately called the Deaf and Gay Club. It was something that Sam had helped to start up about two years ago, designed to bring together the local gay and deaf communities, Sam being an active part of both. Both Jonah and Simon seemed to love it which was the sole reason Dean was still attending, despite feeling like a glaringly out of place non-gay and non-deaf fraud, but there was a ridiculous amount he would be willing to put up with for his kids’ sakes, including watching the group organizer, an officious, humorless ass with a ginormous crush on Sam, fawn all over his brother all freaking night. Just because Dean wasn’t as fluent as Sam in ASL, didn’t mean he couldn’t tell when two dudes were flirting with each other. 

He supposed it said a lot about his and Sam’s differing outlooks on life that he hated all this group activity shit while Sam loved it. Sure, he’d always socialized with his football teammates during school time, but off the field, he’d never really felt like part of the team, he’d been too different for that, and he’d always hung out with his brother or his girlfriends, preferring to take Sam to the movies or the mall or the bowling alley rather than hang out on the school field with the guys and a keg. He knew it was weird, but hell, their family _was_ weird, having a Mom who was murdered by one of America’s most notorious serial killers and a father who needed six different types of medication to get out of bed in the morning automatically excluded you from the normal category, and Sammy had always been the only other person in the entire world who understood that. 

He sighed tiredly and moved to look through the window into the room next door where the children’s activities were taking place. All the kids were standing in a semi circle, while the teacher in front signed and sang, obviously teaching them a new song, those of them who could were also singing along, and Dean could hear Jonah’s voice clearly above the others. Last week they’d learned _Octopus’ Garden_ , and Jonah and Simon had performed it for him and Sam at home to their mutual excitement. 

Simon was standing next to Jonah, his eyes darting from the teacher to his big brother as he tried to keep up with the rest of the group. Dean watched him, feeling his chest hurt in that aching, protective way it always did when he watched his youngest son. There was a part of him that just wanted to run in there, scoop Simon up in his arms and carry him away to someplace where he’d be safe forever, where he had perfect hearing and a father who wasn’t scared of facing up to the reality of his disability, a family who could afford to give him every support and every medical advantage he deserved. Sam was so much better at dealing with Simon than he was, so much better at owning up to his needs, so much stronger and braver than him. Sam was brave enough to be gay, to be out and proud in their home town, to face up to all the shit that that brought with it, he was brave enough to get over that whole shitstorm with David, and Dean had known how much Sam’d loved that unworthy fuck-up. 

He forced back the inevitable scowl that thoughts of David always brought to his face and dragged his gaze away from the children. He turned and searched the room for Sam, finally locating him by the coffee machine, flanked by Troy of course. This time he did scowl to himself, watching in irritation as Troy placed a hand on Sam’s ripped forearm, tongue coming out to flick greedily over those thin lips of his as he stared up at Sam with freaking moon-calf eyes. 

A hand on his own arm had him spinning around, gaze falling on a woman standing beside him. She was one of the new members, one half of a deaf lesbian couple who had just moved into the area from Seattle a month ago with a daughter of about Jonah’s age. She was kinda hot, good body, bad hair, a bit short, but with a generous wide mouth and attractive eyes, definite sex-appeal.

 _Must piss you off_ , she signed. _If he was my girlfriend, I’d be pissed_. She nodded towards the spot where Troy was still flirting desperately and badly with Sam. 

It always surprised him how open the people in these groups were, immediately taking to him like he was one of them. There was an automatic inclusion mentality, a solidarity in the way they behaved. He could almost understand why Sam liked it so much, it was comforting to be able to just slot in, to be automatically included, to _fit_. Outside of his family, he’d never really felt like he fit anywhere. 

He hesitated, about to explain that he and Sam were not in a relationship for Christ’s sake, and why the fuck were people always thinking that? But then he remembered that she was new. She probably hadn’t been told that they were brothers, so she was jumping to the inevitable conclusion. After all, all the other families here were couples. 

_That’s okay_ , he told her, _he’s my brother, not my boyfriend._

She looked surprised, glancing between him and Sam again before she shrugged and signed an apology, the expression on her face telling him that she didn’t entirely believe him. 

“God, I hate that place,” he bitched under his breath as they drove back to the house. Simon and Jonah were asleep in the backseat of the car, Simon’s head on Jonah’s shoulder. 

“Dean, c’mon, it’s good for them, you know that. And if you gave it a chance." 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

“Well, I’m just saying. Quit being so damn negative all the time.” 

“Whatever. You just like it ‘cause you get slavered over by that asshole organizer guy.” 

“Who? Troy?” 

“Yeah, _Troy_ ,” Dean retorted. “It’s totally pathetic, the way he fawns over you, like he’s about to drop to his knees and suck you off right there and then.” 

Sam made a face. “You’re being ridiculous.” 

“Oh, so he hasn’t propositioned you then?” 

“So what if he has? Should it matter?” 

Dean gritted his teeth, shooting Sam an aggravated look. Sam was kinda right, it really shouldn’t matter. Sam was free and single; he could hook up with whomever he wanted, and Dean knew that he did hook up. Sam went out a couple of times a month, when he had money and when Dean wasn’t working, and Dean knew that he always got laid, usually not coming back until the following morning, grinning from ear to ear and looking sickeningly pleased with himself. But at least, Dean never had to witness any of Sam’s hook-ups first hand. It was bad enough when Sam had been dating David, watching the two of them together. 

He couldn’t exactly say why it was that it bothered him so much to see Sam hooking up with guys. He wasn’t homophobic, no way, but Sam was his little brother and he hated thinking of Sam with another guy, doing shit with another guy, sucking another guy’s cock or taking it up the ass from another guy. Though Sam had reliably informed him that it was usually the other way round. He swallowed and fixed his gaze on the road unfolding in front of them. 

“I don’t know, okay!” he gritted out, “It’s just. Fuck, man, that place is our thing; it’s where we take the boys. The idea of you hooking up with some desperate sad-ass." 

“You’re jealous,” said Sam, sounding amused, the jerk. 

“Fuck off, I am not!” 

“Dean, yeah, you are.” Sam darted him a look, amusement tinged with fondness. “Dude, it’s okay, I turned him down. I’m not interested in him. I can do way better than that.” 

“Pretty sure of yourself.” 

“Yeah,” Sam said with a shrug. “You should come out with me sometime. See what I’m talking about.”

Dean hesitated, licked his lips, changing his grip on the wheel. “You serious?” 

“Completely.” 

“You mean – like, a gay bar? Me come out with you to a gay bar?” 

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.” Sam shifted in his seat so his face was turned towards Dean, eyes boring into the side of Dean’s face, his profile. Dean swallowed, feeling suddenly self-conscious under Sam’s close scrutiny. “Listen to me, man, this could be exactly what you need. I’ve been thinking about this and I think it could be good for you.” He reached over, big hand landing suddenly on Dean’s thigh and giving it a friendly squeeze. Dean flinched, breath catching in his throat, as he tried to swallow again. “You told me you haven’t been laid in ages, that you miss sex, gotten tired of porn." 

“Not completely tired of porn, nobody can be completely tired of porn,” he corrected, surprised by how shaky his voice seemed to be. 

Sam waved his hand, flashed him a smile. “Absolutely true. But, seriously, I can guarantee, if you come out with me, you will get laid. I’m not talking about sex or anything too _gay_ ,” catching Dean’s eye, he smirked. “But, a blow-job, no problem. Guys will be lining up wanting to blow you. And, Dean, you haven’t been blown until you’ve been blown by a guy, _we_ know how to do it. So what do you say?” 

Dean risked a glance at his brother’s face, that big wide smile, the goddamn dimples and shining eyes, fuck it, he could never say no to that face, and Sam fucking knew it. 

“Jesus Christ, alright,” he said finally. 

Sam’s smile got even wider. “Awesome. You are so not gonna regret this.” 

 

***

 

The following night, Dean worked late. There was a six car pile-up on the 35; all crews were being called in, and he and Jeannie were the first patrol-car after the ambulances on the scene. They’d dealt with multi-car pile-ups before, this stretch of the 35 was a notorious accident black-spot, but as he pulled up with a screech of brakes his mouth fell open in shock: this was something else, the entire stretch of road in front of them reminding him of those opening scenes from the pilot of _Lost_. He gulped and exchanged a quick glance with Jeannie. She was swallowing back her fear, the whites of her eyes stark in the high beams. 

He found himself giving CPR to a little girl about Simon’s age, silently counting off the 30 – 2 in his head as his arms and shoulders pumped mechanically, silently pleading for God or Jesus or whatever it was that decided this shit to give her a break – to give him a break. For once, it seemed that God was listening and he felt like bursting into tears of gratitude and relief when he felt the puff of air against his cheek, her pulse buzzing sluggishly back to life under his fingertips. 

It took about four hours to clear the scene enough to get traffic moving again. He got back into the patrol car, and curled his fingers around the wheel, bending over until his forehead touched the hard black plastic. He squeezed his eyes closed and listened to himself breathe, the radio crackling quietly in the background. The lights of the sirens – blue and yellow and red – were blurring against his closed, tired eyes, and he suddenly remembered another night with a lot of sirens, a lot of people crowding around him while he clutched tight to his baby brother and watched the paramedics load the stretcher holding his mother’s body into an ambulance. 

Someone knocked at the car window and he snapped his eyes open, memories disappearing. He cranked down the window, and Jeannie peered inside, looking concerned. 

“You okay?” she asked. 

“Fine.” 

She pursed her lips, her _don’t give me that bullshit_ look. “Go home. It’s after three; you should be home with your boys.” 

It was nearly four am by the time he finally did get home. He stomped tiredly up the stairs, eyes ghosting over the family photographs taking up every inch of space on the staircase and landing. Mom and Dad outside the house in Lawrence, young and happy and beautiful; he and Sammy at nine and five, sitting on the hood of the Impala in Bobby’s yard; his senior high-school football picture, himself in the middle on the front row, holding the state trophy and grinning like a loon; Sam and Jess at junior prom, looking happy and dorky; Jonah and Simon at five and three, in the backyard half-naked and covered in mud and grinning stupidly at the camera; Dad and Bobby in their marine uniforms before they’d gone to their platoon’s 25th anniversary reunion; him and Sam standing over the smoking barbecue at their fourth of July party last year, holding barbecue tongs and solo cups of beer; and his own favorite photo: Dad two months before he died, holding six month old baby Jonah in his arms and smiling warmly at the camera, that slow easy genuine grin of his, the same grin that both Sam and now Jonah had inherited and could use to such devastating effect. 

He dragged his eyes away from the pictures and headed for the boys’ room. He pushed their door open, his heart missing a beat when his eyes skated over two empty beds. He swallowed, getting himself quickly under control, and padded down the landing towards Sam’s room. There were three dark tousled heads just visible over the top of the enormous quilt that covered Sam’s enormous bed. He repressed the urge to roll his eyes, instead allowing himself a half-smile as he silently tiptoed inside. Sam was always giving him shit about allowing the boys to sleep with him. He should’ve known Sammy wasn’t taking his own damn advice. 

Simon looked up as he pushed the door shut behind him, blinking owlishly, his tousled brown bangs tumbling over his forehead. 

_Daddy_? his hand moved sleepily to shape the word.

Dean smiled at him, _Hello, sweetheart._

Simon held out one small hand, and Dean leaned over to squeeze his fingers, Simon’s hand warm and clammy against his. He quickly shucked off his uniform until he was down to his boxers and undershirt, and crawled under the covers into the space next to Simon. It was a tight squeeze, – the four of them in the same bed, but Simon was burrowing into him, pressing his face into Dean’s chest as Dean pulled him in closer, his mouth in Simon’s warm messy hair. He heard Simon let out a long, whimpering breath then slowly go still as he faded into sleep. He closed his own eyes, feeling the crappiness of the day melt away as he too fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

_Don’t fake it baby, lay the real thing on me,  
The church of man-love, is such a holy place to be _  
Moonage Daydream – David Bowie

 

Dean regretted agreeing to Sam’s insane plan as soon as he descended the stairs, Sam greeting him with a frown, saying, “You’re not wearing that, are you?” 

He ran one hand self-consciously over his leather jacket and jeans. He’d picked out this outfit especially, these were his best jeans, goddamnit. 

“C’mon, man, you gotta lose a couple of layers,” Sam added. 

“Like you?” he shot back. 

Sam was wearing one of his many obscenely tight t-shirts that clung to him like it was freaking spandex, like one of those crazy cyclists, emphasizing every scary hulking muscle of his chest and arms, which Dean supposed was the point. His jeans were tight around the ass, with that fake, distressed look that came with holes in strategic places, like just below his left ass cheek, revealing his even tighter black briefs. His hair was actually styled for once, slicked into something resembling a style – maybe a majorly crazy bed-head style – but definitely some sort of style. Seriously, looking at him dressed like this, Dean wondered how he’d ever thought his brother might be straight. 

Sam shrugged, pressed his lips together, “Look, just, take off that shirt at least. It’s, like, seventy degrees outside. You’re not gonna need it.” 

Dean rolled his eyes and complied, taking off his leather jacket, followed by the plain olive shirt; underneath that he was just wearing a faded gray t-shirt. 

He rolled his shoulders self-consciously, shooting Sam a pissy look. “This good enough for you?”

Sam gave him a long look, then nodded approval. “You’ll do.” 

The place was buzzing when they arrived, the doorman nodding hello to Sam and giving Dean an extremely close one-over and a shark-like smile. Sam smiled tightly and clapped the guy on the shoulder, hard. 

“Don’t bother, Luke, he’s with me.” 

“Nooooo, Sam, dude, you’re killin’ me. He’s real cute.” 

“Hey, I’m standing right here,” Dean put in irritably, giving the guy some major stink-eye, not that he seemed deterred; his eyes were still raking up and down Dean’s body in a way that was making him wish he’d kept those layers on. 

Sam laughed and placed one of his huge hands on Dean’s shoulder to steer them inside. The place wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. Okay, so the majority of the clientele seemed to be dressed like Sam, though Dean was proud to note that none of them carried it off as well as his brother. 

He could feel several interested gazes on him as he followed Sam to the bar, not to mention some wandering hands. Seriously, was this normal behavior in a gay bar? Were gay dudes always this damn forward? Sam seemed to take it in his stride, shouldering aside a couple of guys making out to make room for the two of them at the bar.

“Christ, I feel like I got fresh meat stamped on my forehead,” Dean bitched as they finally created some space to themselves. “Is it normal to get felt up like that? Jesus!” 

“Dude, c’mon,” said Sam easily, “you’re easily the hottest guy in here, of course you’re gonna get felt up.” 

Dean flashed him a shocked, side-long glance, but Sam was not looking his way, too busy trying and succeeding in getting the barman’s attention. 

Sam placed their order for beers and shots and turned back to Dean. “Hey, relax, it’s okay. I’ll fight ‘em off if it makes you feel better, tell them all you’re my new boyfriend, or my new fucktoy.” His mouth curled up in a way Dean could only describe as evil. And smug. 

“Fucking. Peachy. Why did I let you talk me into this?” 

“Because you’re desperate, and because you love me,” Sam replied with a beatific smile. Dean opened his mouth to retort but Sam was already paying the bartender for their drinks. 

“Now if we play our cards right, these are the only drinks we’re gonna have to buy tonight,” Sam said as he handed over the tequila shots. 

“Huh?” Dean gave him a confused look. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, c’mon, how’d you think I can afford to go out so often?” He raised an eyebrow at his brother and poked his lime wedge down into the neck of his Corona. 

Dean just stared. “Dude, that’s like – I’m not a freakin’ chick!” 

Okay, so yeah, he had often wondered how Sam managed to pay for all his nights out, considering the state of their household finances. But he’d always assumed it was just some sort of budgeting wizardry on Sam’s part, he'd never bothered inquiring. 

Sam was watching him, looking amused. “This,” he tilted his bottle of Corona towards Dean, “cost eight dollars, and you don’t want to know how much the shots were.” 

“ _Eight dollars_?” 

“Yeah, Dean, eight dollars. Now, c’mon, drink up.” He raised his tequila shot, indicating Dean do the same. Dean followed his lead blankly, clinking his glass against Sam’s and muttering a cursory, “Cheers,” before he downed it. The familiar stirring burn of the tequila sliding down his throat was nice, familiar and welcome. He smacked his lips when he was done, aware that Sam was smiling at him from over the rim of his bottle with that fond Sammy smile. 

“Sam!” 

Dean spun around to see a tall guy approaching them, grinning widely. He glanced at Sam and felt a stab of annoyance as Sam grinned and waved the guy over. Huh, obviously Sam knew this loser, doubtless some ex hookup wanting to try his luck again. Awesome. 

“Wow, so good to see you again! Christ, feels like it’s been ages,” the guy gushed, leaning in to clink the necks of their beer bottles. “How you been? I haven’t seen you around for ages.” 

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Man, could this guy be any more obvious? 

“So, who’s this?” the guy asked, finally noticing that Sam was – you know - already kinda in the middle of a conversation that didn’t include him. 

“This is Dean,” Sam said. “My brother. Dean, this is Scotty.” 

Right, so this time he was Sam’s brother. Evidently Sam had some interest in this loser. 

Dean gritted his teeth and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” 

Scotty took his hand; for such a tall guy he had weirdly small fingers. 

“So you’re Sam’s brother? The famous Dean?” The guy’s eyebrows shot up and he gazed harder at Dean. “Wow. You gotta know, you guys look nothing alike.” 

“Yeah, I got all the looks,” Dean retorted. 

The guy laughed, nudging Sam in a way that was really fucking over familiar. “I like him, Sammy.” 

Dean bristled, valiantly resisting the urge to shoot this small-handed loser a serious death glare. And why wasn’t Sam correcting him? No one got to call him that except family, damn it. 

Instead he dropped his gaze, looking out across the bar, congratulating himself on controlling his temper. The place was packed, more and more guys passing through the door. No wonder Sam seemed to like it here so much; with all these willing guys looking for no-strings-attached sex, it was perfect. Sam and Scotty were talking again, heads bent together, that curl to Sam’s lip which meant he was flirting, which he _so_ didn’t need to do. It was obvious that this poor sucker had it bad, almost as bad as freaking Troy at the Deaf and Gay Club. 

“Hey.” 

Dean started at the voice so close to his ear. He dragged his eyes away from Sam and Scotty to see a guy leaning up against the bar, smiling warmly at him. 

“Buy you a drink?” the guy asked. 

Dean hesitated, glancing quickly at Sam, but Sam didn’t seem to have noticed, too engrossed with his new best bud, and fuck, at eight dollars a freaking bottle...

“Yeah, I’ll have another one of these.” 

They settled into an easy conversation. The guy, Thomas, seemed nice, normal and surprisingly easy to talk to, not aggressively, scarily gay like some of the boys staring and waggling their tongues at him from various corners of the room. He worked as a civil engineer, it was as boring as it sounded, and had the sort of open friendly face that generally made terrible witnesses in court, the sort of people who melted like candy in sunshine under cross examination. 

“So, you here on your own?” he asked Dean. 

Dean nodded towards the end of the bar, towards Sam and his admirer. 

“Came here with my brother.”

“Sam? You’re Sam’s brother?” 

“Yeah. You know him?” 

“Dude, everyone knows Sam!” 

“Oh, right. And, uh, is that a good thing?” 

Thomas laughed. “I think you can guess the answer to that.” 

Dean felt a prickle of irritation nibble at the edge of his spine and he nodded, “Right, right.” 

“Hey, look, I’m sorry.” The guy stuck out his hand, resting it on Dean’s shoulder. Dean jerked his head up in surprise, but the guy squeezed gently, gave him a reassuring smile. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. Sam’s a great guy. And, you know,” he shrugged and smiled wryly, “really fucking hot.” 

“So you’ve slept with him?” Dean snapped. 

Thomas laughed again. Jesus, it was really freaking difficult to hate this guy. “Slept with? Not exactly. We’ve fooled around some. He gives the best head, not as good as me, but-” He broke off at the look on Dean’s face and his expression fell comically again. “Shit, man, I – I guess you don’t want to know that about your own brother, right?” 

Dean froze, a jolt of something to his gut, his belly ducking and rolling, making him feel suddenly short of breath. He swallowed it back, took a swig on his beer. “Not so much.” 

“Dude, I’m sorry.” The guy leaned in, he smelled good, of something nice, something… masculine. His voice fell, getting more intense, kind of husky, a low whisper against Dean’s ear. “How can I make it up to you? I’d really like to make it up to you.” 

“I, uh,” he hesitated, licked his lips. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue: back off, I’m straight, I’m not interested - but something was blocking them, some part of him not wanting to push this guy away, some part of him responding to his obvious interest. But hell, wasn’t that the entire point of this fun little adventure? Finding some dude willing to suck his cock? 

The thought made him swallow again, his stomach muscles tightening, his dick start to take interest. Christ, that was all it was, his poor dick crying out for some real action for the first time in – Jesus – in a year? Fuck, that was pitiful. 

He pasted on his best, flirtiest grin, and looked up at the guy through his eyelashes. No one could say Dean Winchester didn’t know how to work his good side. “You can always buy me another drink?” 

Thomas gulped, laughed shakily, and turned to signal to the barman. 

“So, this your first time here?” Thomas asked after their drinks had come again. 

“Is it that obvious?” 

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

Dean groaned, “Sam dragged me here. Thought I needed the break.” 

“Yeah? Why?” 

He rolled his eyes, gave Thomas a dubious look over the rim of his beer bottle. “Dude, you’re not interested in that shit. I know that look. You just wanna get in my pants.” 

Thomas laughed again, deep and genuine. “Yeah, okay, so sue me. But in my defense, you have a _really_ nice ass. And you know, the rest of you’s not so bad either.” 

He grinned, licking his lips, that look in his eyes that was both predatory and calculated. Dean knew that look, had used it on girls enough himself. This was the moment, the turning point: he could back down right now – put this guy straight, so to speak - tell him he wasn’t interested, he was only here because he was incapable of saying no to his little brother. 

But he didn’t want to do that. 

Thomas edged closer, taking Dean’s answering smile as an invitation, until they were almost touching, bare arms brushing. He had good arms, Dean noticed, thick and muscled, definition about as good as his own, not as good as Sam's, but then Sam’s body was something else. Thomas shifted his leg so their thighs touched, the movement sending a bolt of heat straight to Dean’s gut, to his cock.

“I’ve been told that I can do sinful things with my tongue,” he whispered. “I made Sam come three times in one hour. And, God, the things I wanna do to you. You have no idea how hot you are. You are _way_ too hot to be straight.” 

Dean blinked, tore his eyes away from his face, towards the end of the bar, towards Sam. Sam was watching him intently, his eyes dark and slanted, narrowed in with singled-minded focus on Dean’s face, on the places where Thomas was touching him. Sam lifted his beer bottle to his mouth, took a long sip, throat bared, long, gleaming neck, his eyes not leaving Dean. He was daring him. Dean recognized that look in his brother’s eyes, the blazing daggers in his gaze: this was a challenge. Sam was daring him to go through with it, a silent _you don’t have the balls, Dean,_ but Sam should know better than that. 

Dean forced himself to look away from his brother. His stomach was churning, all fluttering nerves and butterflies, hot beads of sweat collecting under his armpits and in the small of his back, making his t-shirt cling. 

He took a breath and raised his eyes to Thomas. “Alright, stud, show me whatcha got.” 

Thomas took possession of him like he was afraid Dean was going to change his mind, his hand locked around Dean’s bicep, thick fingers digging into the muscle. He dragged Dean through the crowd of tight, hard bodies, towards a door at the back. Jesus, this place had a freaking _backroom?_ Fuck, he thought they were just a myth. 

Through the door, he was immediately hit by the smell. The heady, unmistakably masculine scents of sex and sweat, more pungent that a locker-room after football practice. He blinked and gaped. It was darker than the bar, the only light coming from tiny reflected beads in the floor and plasma screens playing black and white erotica in each of the four corners of the room. The surreal, pale light of the screens shone off glimmering, naked skin and fully erect cocks, the scene around him making him feel like he’d just walked into a triple-X-rated version of Madonna’s _Justify My Love_ video. 

Thomas pushed him back against one free section of wall, and leaned in. 

“This your first time with a guy, Dean?” 

He shivered at the sound of his own name being hissed out in a deep, unabashedly masculine voice. He nodded, relieved that the low lighting and loud music meant that Thomas couldn’t see his flushed cheeks or hear his thudding heart. Okay, so this was it, he was really going to go through with this, it was too late to turn back now. He – Dean Winchester – ex-football hero, police officer, twice-divorced, father-of-two was in the backroom of a gay club with a dude about to suck his cock. 

“I’m gonna make this good for you, I promise,” whispered Thomas. 

He swallowed back his nerves, tilted his head and threw him a challenging look. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Thomas grinned at him. “You’ve never been blown properly if you haven’t been blown by a dude. We know how it’s done.” 

Dean murmured, “Okay.” He had to admit there was something in that logic. Jess had loved everything about sex with him, had freaking worshiped his body, but she’d still found blowjobs a chore. And Cora, she’d pretty much been up for anything, but even she would always make sure he promised her something in return before agreeing to go down on him. 

“Okay,” Thomas repeated. He smiled again, and Dean smiled tentatively back at him, almost jerking away when Thomas pressed his mouth on his, the sudden and terrifying beat of: _guy, guy, guy, he’s a guy_ snapping against every inch of his brain, threatening every immediate, instinctive response.

“Relax,” Thomas whispered, “c’mon, it’s okay, man.” 

He closed his eyes and went with it, opened his mouth to Thomas, let him push his tongue in, his own hand coming up to cradle his head in the same way he did when he was kissing a woman – and _oh_ , that was weird – the short, stubbled buzz-cut under his palm. He wasn’t used to that, chicks had longer, softer hair. Sam’s hair would probably feel like a chick’s, he used so much freaking shampoo and conditioner and some chick shit he called “treatment”- 

God, why was he thinking about Sam’s hair? 

He pushed the thoughts from his brain and concentrated on this: on the way the guy was devouring his mouth, the rough scrape of his teeth, and _fuck, yeah…_ that felt good. He’d always kinda liked it rough, it was one of the reasons he and Cora had lasted as long as they did, ‘cause there sure hadn’t been much else keeping them together. Thomas groaned and pulled away from him, nipping at his lower lip as he did. 

“Christ, so hot, so fucking hot,” Thomas moaned, and Dean felt a stab of vindication. That was his first gay kiss and already he had the other guy moaning like a freaking pornstar. “Gonna make this so good for you, Dean, so good.” 

He gasped as Thomas’s big hand cupped his crotch, rubbing the palm against his growing hard-on, Thomas leaning in for another kiss. This time he gave back as good as he was getting, one hand on Thomas’s bristly head, the other at his waist. Thomas whimpered and pulled away, started kissing at his jaw, his neck, finding that sweet spot that had always gotten him so turned on at the base of his neck. Dean shivered and went with it, Thomas’s big, talented hand massaging his cock through his jeans. 

Thomas pulled back and smiled at him, slow and lush, the lights making his skin shine, lips glistening from their shared saliva and bitten-off kisses. He leaned in and stroked his thumb over Dean’s lower lip. 

“Christ, you are so hot. Gonna make it so good for you.” 

Dean's gut clenched up; no one had ever spoken to him like that, with that uninhibited admiration and lust. Thomas dropped to his knees, tilted his head back to look at Dean, and smiled serenely. Then he was leaning forward and actually freaking nuzzling at Dean’s crotch, mouth hanging open in anticipation, like a hungry dog. His fingers flicked Dean’s fly open, and Dean's dick sprang out like a switchblade. Thomas groaned and leaned in and licked up the underside, eventually closing his mouth around the head and sucking hard. 

_Jesus, God,_ that felt good. It had been so long, fuck, how fucking long had it been? Over a year since someone had sucked his cock. Man, that was so damn long, and this felt so damn good. He groaned and raised his eyes from Thomas’s bobbing head, blinking lazily at the mass of bodies pressed up against all four walls, and froze… 

…Sam. 

Sam, his Sam, his brother. Sam pressed up against the opposite wall. Sam naked from the waist up, torso gleaming like a Greek statue, jeans open, and that guy, that Scotty on his knees in front of him, worshipping him. Dean gulped, gazed, hopelessly captivated, mesmerized by the sight before him, by the slide of sweat down Sam’s naked chest, by the light playing across the rippling muscles of his abs.

Their eyes met and it was like a snap of Dean’s heart, a head-rush and a gun-shot crack of heat to his gut all at the same time. He could see his brother’s hand cradling Scotty’s head like it was no bigger than a baseball, guiding him backwards and forwards, Scotty’s mouth gliding up and down Sam’s big cock. But none of that mattered, no one else in the entire world mattered because all of Sam’s attention, all that wonderful, fascinating Sammy attention was focused utterly and completely on Dean.

Dean flinched, wrenched his gaze away, he was shaking, he couldn’t look up again, he–

He gulped and took a deep breath. He had to look up again. He had to see if Sam was still watching, see that he hadn’t imagined it. 

Sam _was_ still watching, his lips half-parted, sheen of sweat on his nose and throat shimmering in the ethereal, white light, dark strands of hair glued to his forehead, those slanted, fox-like eyes locked on Dean, boring into him, touching and tracing all of him, every pore and cell of his body, as deliberate and hungry as a touch. Sam licked his lips, tightened his hold on Scotty’s skull, making his head bob faster and faster as Dean felt his own cock respond, twitch and throb as Thomas’s tongue slid down its length. 

There was no one else in the room. Everyone had melted away, even the guy at his feet, the guy giving him all this pleasure was fading away, until there was only Sam. His Sammy watching him get blown by a stranger with an unmistakable yearning in his eyes. Dean blinked, and Thomas vanished, replaced by Sam, kneeling before him, head tilted back, revealing that long, glistening line of his throat, the strong jaw and dark hair fringing his eyes, big, wide mouth and pink tongue swiping across his lips. _“Wanna suck your cock, Dean, my Dean, wanna feel you on my tongue, want you to come down my throat. I want all of it, want you. Always wanted you, big brother. Always you.”_

Dean cried out, and came, cock pumping out his release in Thomas’s mouth, chest spasming as he panted for breath. 

“There, you like that?” Thomas unbent and stood up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. 

Dean nodded hopelessly, fumbling with his fly as he buttoned himself back up. “Yeah, uh, thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

He was shaking, trembling, he’d just experienced the most epic orgasm of his life and he’d done it because–

He couldn’t think about that, couldn’t look across the room, see Sam, see the reality of what he’d just done, what he’d just fantasized. 

“Yeah, uh, gotta go,” he stammered, and fled. 

He pushed through the crowded bar, desperate to get outside, get away from the club, away from Thomas, away from Sam. 

He got into the car, curled his fingers around the familiar shape of his baby’s steering wheel, panting for breath as he tried forcibly to calm himself down, tried to stop shaking. This kind of physical reaction was rare for him. He prided himself on always being in control of his body, of being able to use it as a weapon, as a force – in football, baseball, track – all the sports he’d played, still played, hell, even when wrestling with Sammy. 

He choked, breath caught for a tight terrifying second in the back of his throat. He forced himself to breathe – in, out, in out.

He needed - something, something familiar, something he loved, something comforting...

Sam. 

Oh God, no, not Sam. Why did everything lead back to Sam? 

Sam could never be familiar or comforting, not anymore, not after tonight, not after what he’d just done, what he’d just seen on his brother’s face, what he’d just imagined. Sam could never be comforting again. 

Jonah, Simon. 

Yes, his boys. He needed his boys, had to see them, make sure they were okay, hold them tight and protect them from everything. God, he loved them so much. His boys. 

He uncurled his fingers. They felt stiff, cramped, indents in the skin where he’d been gripping the wheel. He raised a shaky hand, ran it over his face, shocked to feel the wet-warm sensation of tears against his palm. 

This was what it was like to feel devastated, he thought dully, to feel like someone had rammed something into his chest and rummaged around with his insides, turning every feeling, every emotion, all the love and affection he’d ever felt for his brother and twisted it into something else – something perverted, something sick, something wrong.

He lowered his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers, hyper-aware of himself. His skin felt clammy, still sweaty from the club, his dick sticky and gross in his boxers, his t-shirt stuck to his body like saran wrap over cold cuts. 

His own brother, his own baby brother. Sammy. His Sam who was – always had been - so much more than a brother. 

He passed another shaky hand over his face, hearing the rasp of his stubble against Dad’s ring. Shit, he really needed to get a grip. He couldn’t go and see his boys in this kinda state. He’d always promised himself that he’d never do this, never let either of them see him like this, like all those times he and Sammy ( _oh God, Sam_ ) had seen their father drunk or drooling on his various prescription meds, like all those times they’d helped put him to bed, pulled off his boots and suffered through his raving declarations of affection. 

He exhaled and replaced his hands on the wheel, fingers moving instinctively to start the engine, eyes flicking to the mirrors and over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking lot. 

He pulled up outside Jess’s place, dimmed the headlights, killed the engine and turned to stare at Jess’s one-storey house. The lights from the kitchen and the living room were on, and could picture her in there: researching something interesting for her students to paint, or maybe painting herself, or reading something instructional. Jess was not the sort of person who could just lie on the couch and watch TV. She always had to be doing something, making something or learning something. It was a trait that he’d found both admirable and exasperating for the short time they’d been married. 

Setting his teeth, he slid out the driver’s side. He was not going to pussy out now, he was going to go on in there and see his boys. Jess could say whatever the hell she wanted, and fuck it, anything was better than going home and risking running into Sam. 

Jess answered the door looking a mixture of bewildered and exasperated. 

“Dean? What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?” 

“Yeah. Of course.” 

“You’re lucky I’m awake.” 

“C’mon, I know you never go to bed before 12.” 

She pressed her lips into a thin line, and left the door open behind her, evidently his cue to enter. He hesitated for a moment before he stepped over the threshold, pushing the door firmly closed. It was about as good an invitation as he could expect. 

“Shoes!” she called over her shoulder, already disappearing into the kitchen. 

He toed off his boots, remembering how she’d tried to implement a strict 'no shoes indoors' rule back when they’d been married. It hadn’t worked; neither him or Sam, not to mention Jonah, or Simon when he’d started wearing shoes, had ever come to grips with the idea of different footwear for indoors and outdoors. It just wasn't something that he and Sammy had ever been taught. In fact, he had clear memories of watching his father sleep - in his bed, on the couch, even in the bath tub on one particularly bad night - with his boots and overcoat still on, as if he had to be ever eternally prepared to fight off the unknown, those figments of his tortured imagination that never left him, especially not in sleep. 

He pried his boots off and padded down the thick, carpeted hall to the kitchen. After the divorce, Jess’s parents had bought this place for her and she’d done it up herself until it was about as different from the Winchester place as it was possible to be. It reminded him of a Swedish furniture showroom, all pine-wood and a lot of white. Walls, carpet, curtains, cushions, things actually matched in Jess’s house. He didn’t think anything had ever matched in their house. 

Jess was standing by the refrigerator topping up her wineglass. She looked up and gave him a once-over, asking, “You want some wine?” 

“You got any beer?” 

“No.” 

“Okay, wine is good.” 

She nodded, and took down another glass from a high cabinet, pouring him a generous measure. She picked up the glasses by the stems – another Jess thing, she totally hated finger marks on glassware – and brought them over to the small pine kitchen table. 

He took a seat opposite, murmuring thanks which she didn’t bother to acknowledge. They sipped their drinks in an awkward silence for a few seconds, before she sighed, raised one hand to push a stray curl of blond hair back into her messy pony-tail. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s eating you, or have I got to guess?” 

“Nothing,” he answered quickly. “Just – wanted to see if the boys were okay.” 

“Right,” she said with a skeptical twist of her mouth. “Sure you did.” 

He spread his hands, gave her a shit-eating grin, but the skeptical look did not disappear. She nodded her head towards the open door. “They’re asleep, but go right ahead, do whatever you have to.” 

He slid off the chair and walked back out into the hall, down to the last door on the left which he knew was the bedroom the boys always used when they slept over. They were sleeping on top of the bed, on the embroidered white counterpane in the old GI Joe camouflage sleeping bags that had once belonged to him and Sammy. He tiptoed closer, the light from the hallway falling in a slanted rectangle over the bed, illuminating the tip of Jonah’s nose and the soft brown hair tumbled messily over his forehead. Simon was lying in the shadow, his squeezed-shut eyes fringed by their long baby-soft lashes and looking curiously naked without his glasses. 

Dean leaned over, gently pressed his lips to Simon’s sleep-warm forehead, feeling Simon’s messy dark curls scratching against his cheek as he breathed in the familiar, warm scent of his son’s skin. He turned next to Jonah, and pressed an identical kiss to his forehead, tenderly ghosting one finger over the supple arch of his cheekbone, the scattering of freckles on his cheeks and nose that were identical to his own. He was such a ridiculously attractive kid; he was really going to be a heartbreaker when he grew up. It was something that filled Dean simultaneously with a lot of pride and a lot of disquiet. He knew from personal experience that attractive people did have it a lot easier. But he also knew from personal experience that the kind of good looks Jonah was going to have could equally be something of a burden, something that was bound to attract the wrong sort of attention. Still, Jonah was his boy to protect, and he would take down anyone who threatened or hurt either Jonah or Simon without thinking twice about it. It was the same kind of all-encompassing protectiveness that he’d always felt towards Sam. 

The thought of Sam made his chest tighten up and his stomach lurch. He swallowed it back, the taste of bile and acid and sour white wine scalding the back of his throat. He couldn’t – not yet – he couldn’t think about Sam. He spared another glance for his two boys, the overwhelming love for them suddenly settling so heavily on him that he wanted to cry with it, and he knew that he was behaving like his father, like Dad had been at his worst moments. 

He shut his eyes, remembering vividly the one time he’d woken up to see Dad sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of his and Sammy’s room. Six-year old Sammy held tightly in Dad’s arms while Dad had rocked and sobbed, his face buried in Sammy’s messy hair, wailing out Sammy’s and Mom’s names, crying out how much he’d loved them – his boys, his wife - while Sammy had trembled in his embrace, mutely pleading with wide, scared eyes for Dean to rescue him from this strange, frightening man they’d called a father. Dad had loved them, Dean knew that. But Dad had been so broken, he’d never been able to truly be a father towards them, just as Mom had never been able to be a mother to them. That evil sonofabitch had seen to that, he had stolen their father from him and Sam just as completely as it had stolen their mother. 

“I told you everything was okay,” Jess commented when he finally withdrew to the kitchen again. Her tone was recriminatory, sort of mulish and it didn’t suit her, sounded way too much like how she’d sounded in the days before she’d finally left him. 

He shrugged and picked up his wine glass, sliding back onto the chair, draining his glass in one gulp. He watched her silently refill both their glasses, the enormous diamond on her left hand glinting like it was part of the credit sequence to one of those old James Bond movies. 

“So, uh, how’s the wedding planning coming along?” he asked, breaking the awkward silence. 

She sighed and gave a self-conscious roll of her eyes. “Okay, it’s all done, practically. We’ve booked the cars, my dress is ready, caterers booked ages ago. It’s all taken care of.” 

“Wow, gotta be, like, - what – four, five months to the big day?” 

“More like two,” she answered. 

“Two, shit. That’s really gone by fast. So, have you ordered food and flowers and all that sort of stuff?” 

She sighed and gave him a dubious look, “Dean, c’mon, you haven’t come here to talk about the arrangements for my wedding. I have very clear memories of you barely even wanting to talk about the arrangements for our wedding.” 

He huffed out a sardonic sort of a laugh and her own lip curled up in wry amusement. That was the thing about Jess, she tried so hard to hold a grudge, to appear strong and unwieldy, but she always gave in, unable to prevent herself – at least with him. 

“So, are you going to tell me what you and Sam fought about this time?” she said after a moment. 

“What makes you think Sam and I have been fighting?” he retorted defensively. The last thing, the absolute very last thing he wanted to do right now was talk about Sam. It was to get away from Sam, from all thoughts of his brother that he was here now, having this supremely awkward tete-a-tete with his ex wife.

“Oh, come on, Dean. You always get like this after a fight with Sam.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like, you don’t know what to do with yourself, like you’ve lost your true north.” 

“Huh, what?” He very nearly spat a mouthful of wine back into the glass. “What kinda lame shit is that?” 

She gave him a cool, knowing sort of look and tapped her enormous ring against the side of her glass. “It’s something Jeff told me about. He talks about it with his patients, and well –I think it makes sense. You see: everybody has someone who they look to for advice, who keeps them going, who’s their immediate go-to person as soon as they need anything. The person they share everything with, the first person they call when they get bad news or good news or any kind of news. For most people, it’s their partner, their husband or wife or girlfriend or boyfriend, whatever. For you, it’s Sam, it’s always been Sam. That person is your true north.” 

Dean didn’t say anything, taking in her words. Put like that, it was kinda difficult to argue with her. Sam was the person he went to for advice, they always made decisions together; Sam was the person he called during work when he was bored. It was him and Sam against the world, it always had been. 

“I never really got that,” Jess continued. He blinked, and she smiled back at him, a brittle, rueful twitch of her lips. “About you and Sam – I thought that would change when we got married, that I’d be that person for you, but I wasn’t.” 

She trailed off and they both fell silent. He didn’t want to think about what she was saying to him, what it all meant. He felt too exhausted to think. His body ached all over, worse than the brutal work-out sessions his college football coach used to put them through. 

“I don’t see what any of this shit has to do with tonight,” he said finally. 

She shrugged. “I’m just saying – when you fight with Sam, it’s overwhelming for you, because he is your true north. When you lose that, you get lost and confused, like you don’t know what you’re doing. Sam’s just the same with you. I remember back in high school when I was dating him, whenever the two of you had a fight, he’d come over and he’d be so pathetic and bewildered that it was sort of endearing, like a lost, little boy. It wasn’t quite as endearing when you and I were married. When you marry someone, you want to be the most important person in their life, not the fifth or sixth most important, after their kids, their brother, their job and their car.” She raised her eyebrows, her mouth twisting up in a way that made her look suddenly quite bitter. 

“I, Jess," he mumbled.

“Whatever,” she said airily, waving one hand between them, that damned enormous ring flashing again like a sparkler on the 4th of July, “I’m over it now. I’m getting married in two months. You and I are old history.” 

There was an awkward, heavy sort of a pause, and he bit his lip, wished suddenly that he’d crashed in on Jeannie and Steve, hell, even Bobby. He shouldn’t be here right now, gate-crashing Jess’s time with the boys. She’d already put up with enough of his shit over the years. 

He pushed his wine glass away, but made no effort to get to his feet. “I should go.” 

“You shouldn’t drive,” she told him. 

“I’ve driven in a way worse state than this, and it’s not far.” 

“Exactly. You should walk. Leave me the keys. I can bring the car back tomorrow when I drop the boys off. Seriously, Dean, listen to me. You’re a cop; it won’t look good if you end up with a DUI.” 

“S’not like any of the guys would actually book me for it.” He thumped his chest with the edge of his fist, pulling a ridiculous face. “Solidarity, yo.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. I’m supposed to have confidence in our county’s finest.” 

“Hey, I’m pretty damn fine. Or so they tell me.” The line came out instinctively as did the accompanying look: one corner of his mouth turned up into his most endearing smile, his lashes half-lowered, eyes lidded. 

She glanced at him as if she wasn’t sure what to say, the silence getting heavy and loaded between them. He saw her eyelashes flutter, the telltale ripple of her throat. He knew Jess, he knew how she worked, and he knew what worked on her. There was a part of the two of them that had always been hard-wired towards each other. He edged his hand over the table top, fingers brushing up against her long tan arm. He smoothed one finger against the soft skin, watching the fine, blond hairs spark up in its wake. 

“Dean, what are you doing?” she whispered, her voice cracking over the words, tone low and unsteady. 

He looked up at her, widening his eyes, mouth slipping upwards into a warm, wicked smile. “C’mon, Jess, you and me – we were always so good together. Don’t you want that again, just for one night? God, ‘cause I do, I really fucking do.” 

She swallowed, the fingers of her other hand flexing around the stem of her glass. Her eyes were still downcast, as if she was trying to read something in the grain of the wood, not daring to look up and see him. He slid his other hand over the table and rested it over her left hand, the huge diamond pressing into the skin of his palm. He entwined their fingers together and squeezed gently. 

“Just one time, that’s all I’m talking about, just one time, nothing serious,” he coaxed. He could feel his cock stirring in his jeans, and he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. This was familiar, this was nothing like sordid blowjobs in a gay bar with a dude, this was nothing like disturbing fantasies about Sam. This was him and Jess and the awesome sex they’d always had together, the way they’d always been able to drive each other crazy, her long gorgeous legs wrapped around his waist, her amazing tits cupped in his hands. 

God, it was so familiar, so easy, he wanted that again. 

It felt like an age before she finally raised her head, lip caught between her teeth as she met his gaze. Slowly, she shook her head, withdrawing her hand from his grasp. “No,” she said, but there was definite reluctance in her voice. “I can’t do that to Jeff. We’re getting married in two months.” 

He nodded his head. In a way, he’d pretty much expected that answer. He would’ve been disappointed in her if she’d given in so easily to him. Jess was classy; she had integrity, it was one of the many things that had made both him and Sam fall for her. 

“Okay,” he raised his hand, passed it over his face. “I, uh, I hope you’re not offended. I know I shouldn’t’ve–“

“Dean, it’s okay,” she said, and her tone was gentle, understanding. She reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. “You’re right, me and you – it was pretty damn amazing most of the time, and I can’t pretend like I don’t think about it, that I don’t remember how it was, and sometimes wish that we could do it again.” She gave a half-shrug. “But I love Jeff and well, you’ll find someone.” 

“Right, sure, ‘cause I’ve got such a great track record?” he snapped out, tone gone bitter. “And, oh yeah, my brother is my true north.” 

She shrugged off the sarcasm. “Maybe you’ll find a girl who doesn’t mind being second best. You never know, it might happen. Maybe Sam will find someone else, someone who will finally replace his big brother in his life.” 

Her tone was joking, light, but the words immediately made Dean’s blood run cold. He pulled his hand from her grasp and got up from the table with a jerk. 

“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll, uh, I’ll leave the car. You’re right, I don’t wanna get wrapped around a tree, would be fuckin’ hypocritical.” 

She got to her feet, a worried expression immediately ghosting across her face, her nose wrinkling. “Dean."

He spun around, “It’s okay, Jess. I’m okay. And I’m sorry about before, I should never have – I mean, you’re engaged and we’re divorced. Jesus, I suck, I know I suck. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she said, her frown deepening. 

“I can let myself out!” he called out as for the second time that evening, he fled from a room.


	5. Interlude: David

_I told you, that I was trouble, yeah;  
You know that I’m no good_  
Amy Winehouse, I'm No Good 

 

Sam met David at KU in the fall of 2002 during his second attempt at completing freshman year. The first time around he’d been too distracted to really immerse himself in student life; Dad was dying, Jonah was a baby and Dean was working two jobs to pay for Dad’s medical bills and the new baby. His family had needed him so he’d dropped out, college not seeming at all important in comparison. But second time around, everything was different: Dad was gone, Jonah was older and Dean was with Reiko. It was time for him to get on with his own life. 

Second time around he did everything differently. He joined the LGBT Group during his first week, signed up for Debate Club and even thought about Drama. The two guys sitting at the Drama Club booth had both been extremely cute, and the cuter one had made no attempt to hide his obvious interest in Sam. 

It seemed like something that was meant to be when he turned up for the first LGBT meeting and saw the guy he’d already labeled _Cute Drama Club Guy_ standing in the corner talking to a bunch of people. The guy saw him come in and immediately excused himself from the group to come over. He was about 5’11, well-built, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. He had the sort of fine features that immediately brought his brother to mind, and although he was nowhere near as attractive as Dean, he was definitely hot. 

That was David. 

They spent all that first night together, just talking. David talked about his parents, about how hard coming out to them had been, how hurt they’d been, how even now, they couldn’t talk about it openly with him. Sam didn’t mention his own father, how Dad had died not even knowing that he had a gay son. Instead he talked about Dean and Jonah, and how easily Dean had accepted it when he’d finally plucked up the courage to tell him. 

Sam found out a lot about David on that first night, though there’d also been a lot he hadn’t found out. Sometimes, months afterwards, he wondered if he’d known everything about David then would he have still gotten as involved as he did? If David had told him the truth: _by the way, Sam, I suffer from debilitating depression and will try to kill myself three times throughout the course of our four year relationship, the last time succeeding and leaving you devastated and broken..._ Would he have changed his mind about wanting to date him if he’d known that? 

Then again, he wasn’t entirely up front with David either, no big admission of: _by the way, David, I have these fantasies about my big brother, and yes, it is as creepy and wrong as it sounds..._ But he was a nineteen year old kid, still dumb and romantic enough to believe in soul-mates. His only previous experience with relationships and sex had been Jess, and that had been so tame, so anemic compared to how he felt when David touched him, how fast his heart beat when David kissed him, how hard his cock got when their bodies were pressed together. Their relationship felt like a revelation to him, everything becoming clear and bright and obvious, and suddenly he could see a way out, a way out of the wrong, overpowering love he’d always felt for Dean, the feelings he’d been trying to repress and deny for years. 

David’s relationship with Dean was fraught, to say the least. In retrospect, Sam could see that it was pretty much his fault. He’d gushed about Dean and Jonah so much that poor David had developed an inferiority complex before he’d even met Sam’s family. And Dean was suspicious from the start, deciding on their very first meeting that David wasn’t right for Sam, he wasn’t good enough, that there was just something about him.

But Sam didn’t want to hear what Dean had to say. He’d found a guy that he could love, someone who made him feel loved, someone with whom he could actually have a future. This was his chance. 

So he and David got serious fast. David was crazy about him and asked Sam to move in with him only a few months into the relationship. Sam refused and kept refusing until Dean announced that Reiko was pregnant with Simon. Sam knew then that he would have to leave – leave Dean to his wife and his son and the new baby. Dean protested when Sam told him his decision, insisting as they loaded Bobby’s pickup with Sam’s stuff that this was his home and always would be. But Sam knew that this was his chance; if he didn’t go now then he would never leave, he would spend the rest of his life in his big brother’s shadow, never able to break away from him, and he loved David, he really did. 

 

**

 

In the end, his and David’s relationship lasted four years. It lasted the course of Dean’s 20-month marriage to Reiko and their divorce. It lasted through Simon’s birth and his illness. It lasted through Dean’s short courtship with Jess and their wedding. It lasted until David attempted suicide for the third time; the third time being the charm and all, that one stuck. 

David died on November 12th, 2006, only three months after Dean and Jess’s wedding. He got into the bath and opened his veins with a kitchen knife. He wasn’t messing around this time; it wasn’t a cry for help like the other two times, it was someone who had given up and just didn’t want to be alive anymore. 

Sam had been at home (it was still home to him, would always be home), babysitting his two nephews while Dean worked a late shift and Jess attended a PTA event at the high school where she taught. Dean drove him home, and Sam walked up the back fire escape, entered his apartment, went straight to the bathroom to piss, and saw his boyfriend’s dead body lying in the bathtub. 

He didn’t call the ambulance at first. It was pointless. He knew that David was dead. He was cold to the touch, no breath, no pulse, blue lips and white skin, pink-red water like a gorgeous, artist’s sunset. Instead, Sam called his brother. 

Dean wasn’t yet home and he answered his cell with a huff of amusement, Black Sabbath in the background. “Missing me already, huh, man?” 

Sam was numb, abrupt and to the point. “Dean, get here. David’s dead. He killed himself.” 

Dean got there in four minutes and Sam was waiting outside on the front step for him. He never set foot in the apartment again. 

The day of David’s funeral was the first day Sam kissed his brother. They both got drunk, really, horribly drunk, blind drunk, and collapsed together on his old bed in his old room. Dean talked quietly while Sam lay beside him with his eyes closed, letting Dean’s familiar, soft, slurred voice break over him, listening to Dean’s mumblings about Mom, about what he remembered before Mom was murdered, about the home they’d been taken to when Dad was institutionalized that first time, about a crazy dog called Albert and being punished by Mrs. Winters, the foster mother, for breaking Sam’s crib when he tried to crawl in there with baby Sammy, his five year old body too heavy for the flimsy wood. 

“I was so scared they were gonna split us up,” Dean slurred. “Last damn thing I remember ‘fore they took Dad away was him tellin’ me, Dean, look after Sammy, take care of your brother, Dean. And I was so fuckin’ scared, man, so fuckin’ scared they were gonna break us up, so scared they were gonna take you away from me." 

Sam wrenched his eyes open and stared at his brother’s face, his vision blurry and hazy with alcohol and all the damn tears he’d shed throughout the day, his body bone-deep exhausted and chest tight with the desperate sobs he’d cried after the eulogy. Dean had led him into the vestry of David’s family church where he’d buried his face in Dean’s crisp white funeral shirt and lost himself to his grief, the image of David’s dead and bloody body in the bathtub, the thick pink water and staring glassy eyes playing over and over in his head. They’d been sprawled over the floor, Dean holding him close and rocking him gently, his cheek against Sam’s hair, while Sam’d clung and sobbed until Dean’s shirt was wet and sticky with his tears and snot. He’d wanted so badly to be the strong one, to be the grieving boyfriend who held it together, who stood firm and strong and stoic. But he’d been weak, completely lost it the moment they’d started playing freaking Dido for fuck’s sake ‘cause David had loved that bland, blond shit. 

He blinked, seeing the sheen of sweat on Dean’s freckled nose, his gold-green eyes and dark lashes, his skin pale in the low light. Even like this, exhausted and drunk and smelling of nasty sour whiskey, Dean was so beautiful, so beautiful that it hurt, and Sam suddenly, desperately ached to touch him, to kiss him, to put his lips on Dean’s and taste his mouth. He was beyond fucked-up, but it didn’t matter now, ‘cause David, the only guy he’d ever thought of as being capable of pasting over the cracks in his life that Dean had always filled, was gone now. Dead, fucking slit his wrists, the selfish fucker, and so Sam was back here, with Dean, wanting and needing him as much as he always had. 

He reached out and curled one hand around Dean’s neck. He watched Dean’s eyelids flutter in surprise, his mouth half parting to breathe out Sam’s name in a confused question. He placed his other hand on Dean’s where it lay on the pillow and he entwined their fingers together, bringing Dean’s hand to his lips and letting it rest there so he could inhale the scent of his brother’s fingers, lemony-lavender smell of soap, sour tang of alcohol and the salty, pungent musk of Dean’s own sweat. 

He shifted closer, close enough so they were sharing a pillow, close enough so their foreheads were touching, his lank hair sticking to Dean’s sweaty forehead, his fingers still spanning the back of Dean’s neck, caressing the knob of Dean’s spine. He felt Dean shiver, whisper, “Sammy, whatcha doin’?” 

“S’nothing,” he whispered back, “s’nothing, Dean, just let me, please, let me. Need to be close to you, please, Dean, need you–“ 

Of course Dean let him, his eyes shiny and concerned, and far too close for comfort, for Dean’s own good, staring at Sam like they were trying to see inside him, trying to crawl inside his brain and fix everything. Dean loved him so much, and he loved Dean so much, and everything today had been just too much, and he couldn’t stop himself. 

Dean had never gotten over his dislike of David. Even after Dean got the message that David was here to stay, he’d never got over it. He put up a good pretense, but he’d never liked him. Maybe it was the gay thing, or maybe, or so Sam liked to think with a stab of vindication, it was jealousy. Dean felt the same way about David as he’d always felt about Dean’s significant others. Dean had been far too used to being Sam’s number one while Sam had had years of Dean’s girlfriends, of Cora and Reiko and now Jess, his own Jess, Dean’s wife, he was never going to be able to get used to that. But he’d only ever really had David, and now he didn’t have him. David was gone. Dead and gone. 

And Dean was his number one again. 

“Dean,” he whispered, “Dean.” 

“S’okay, I’m here,” breathed Dean, the words soft puffs of air against Sam’s cheek, so close he could feel the reverberations of Dean’s breathing through his own body. He moved his hand from Dean’s nape to his cheek, cupping his face. He closed his eyes, leaned in and kissed him. 

Dean instantly went deadly, deathly still. All the air vanished from Sam’s lungs and he snapped his head back, trying vainly to swallow back the sudden rise of bile, of terror that had flooded to his mouth at that stupid, stupid move. He couldn’t believe that he’d done it, that after all those years, he’d given in to that niggling, perverted part of himself and done it. He twisted around, jerking away from Dean, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, his fingers knotting into the pillow. 

“Sam?” Dean was murmuring, sounding confused. He felt Dean shift on the bed beside him, flinched when Dean’s big, warm hand landed gently on his shoulder, felt his heart give a twinge, that dull, hammering ache. “S’alright, dude, s’alright, Sam.” Dean stroked down his arm, his touch making the hairs rise up in its wake. He wanted so much to turn around and drag Dean into his arms, layer kisses all over his face, but he couldn’t do that. He’d already freaked him out enough, he was lucky that Dean was still here, that he hadn’t booked it out of Sam’s immediate vicinity in disgust. “I know you’re all fucked-up, Sam, and it’s okay, I get it. I don’t mind. I just – I just want you to be okay, Sammy, please, turn around, please – just be okay, I’m worried about you, buddy.” 

Dean’s voice sounded so wrecked, so hurt, and it was Sam’s fault, so he rolled over obediently and let his brother gather him up, pull him close and kiss the top of his head. Just like he did to Jonah or Simon when they were crying. 

In the morning, it should’ve been awkward, but it hadn’t been. He awoke to see Dean watching him, eyes red-rimmed with concern, face pale from his hangover, freckles more prominent than usual. He smiled at Sam as soon as he realized he was awake. 

“Sammy, I’ve decided that you’re gonna stay here with us. I’ll go over to your place this morning, pick up anything I missed, though I think I got most of it, but I should check, and I’ll do that now, okay?” he said, mouth running on as if there weren’t enough words to reassure Sam. “You stay here and hang out with the kids. And later we’ll get this room sorted out - me and you, man - we’ll put all your stuff back here where it belongs. Okay?” 

Sam smiled weakly at him and nodded and felt so relieved that he wanted to sob all over again. 

That was the thing about Dean, he always knew what to say, knew that words like: _it’s gonna be okay,_ and, _it’ll get better,_ were just words, just easy clichés. What mattered to Dean was actions, was taking charge and being the big brother; treating Sam the same way he’d always treated him, like he was the most important person in the world, because Dean had always understood without being told exactly what Sam needed. 

He held it together after David because of Dean. Dean was the one holding it together for him. No matter that it had cost Dean his marriage to Jess, not that Dean ever said that out loud, but Sam knew. He could see in the way Jess would watch him sometimes, the way her eyes would linger over the extra place-setting at dinner – Sam’s place-setting. When she’d married Dean she’d known she would have to deal with Dean’s two kids, she hadn’t bought in for Dean’s little brother – her ex-boyfriend – as well. But Sam didn’t care about Jess, about his brother’s marriage. He was selfish and single-minded in his grief and guilt. He’d tried so hard to make things work with David, but he’d failed. 

Maybe David would still be alive if he hadn’t been with Sam, if Sam had tried just that little bit more, if Sam’s heart hadn’t already been spoken for. 

But it was what it was, and Sam knew that the guilt and failure were things he was just going to have to live with, along with the bitter, pain-tinged memories. He’d failed, and now – fuck it - what was the goddamn point? He loved Dean, he needed Dean, and Dean loved him back. Jess should give up and get the hell away from them already, she was never going to be Dean’s number one. 

In the end, Jess left, and Sam stayed, and Sam was too selfish and too happy to have his brother to himself again to feel bad for it. If Dean had truly cared about his marriage as much as he cared about being there for Sam, then he would’ve figured things out. After all, Sam had spent the entirety of his relationship with David trying to convince David and himself that David came first, though it hadn’t counted for anything in the end. Friends and partners came and went; in the end, family was the only thing that really counted.


	6. Chapter 6

_The curiousness of your potential kiss,  
Has got my mind and body aching _  
Unfinished Sympathy – Massive Attack 

 

“Where were you?” Sam demanded. His eyes were flashing, cheeks flushed, a bottle swinging from his fingers. Shit, all warning signs. 

“I stopped off at Jess’s place to see the boys.” 

“Sure,” Sam sneered. “That all you did there?” 

The heat rushed to Dean’s face as he remembered with a sick lurch how he’d tried to put the moves on Jess, how he’d tried to use her to make himself feel better. He blinked, feeling Sam’s eyes boring into him, reading him. He licked his lips, finally managed to croak out, “Why do you care?” 

“Tell me!” Sam insisted. “Did you fuck her?” 

He didn’t answer straight away, feeling the accusation in Sam’s words, and the underlying truth, his own dumb stupidity. 

“You did, didn’t you?” cried Sam. “She’s your ex-wife, Dean! You – you guys are divorced!” He tossed the bottle of vodka – Dean could see it now, shit – to the couch and grabbed onto his hair with both hands. “You’re such a fuckin’ moron sometimes. I don’t – I just don’t get you!” 

“Sam, this has nothing to do with you–“ 

“Nothing to do with me!” Sam roared. “What a fuckin’ – that’s a joke, right? Are you fuckin’ with me, Dean?” 

“I – what? Sam?” 

Sam turned on his heels, bending to pick up the bottle again, take a dramatic swig. Dean swallowed, tracking his brother’s throat as he took a couple of healthy glugs, drinking the stuff like it was freaking water. Sam lowered the bottle and looked at him, no scratch that, _stared_ at him, like he was swallowing him up, his eyes devouring him, that same look as in the club. 

Oh God. Dean swallowed, ducked his head, tearing his eyes away, and heard Sam’s tired, jagged laugh, watched him sink into the couch from the corner of his eye. 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Sam said. 

Dean snapped his head back towards his brother. Sam was cradling the bottle of vodka in his lap, fingers curled around it, and Dean thought that only Sam and his enormous man-paws could make a quart of vodka look as small as a bottle of Bud. 

“Do what?” 

He took a couple of tentative steps forward, sank to the couch beside Sam, lifted his hand to let it hover above his brother’s back, his ridiculously meaty shoulders. He could remember when Sam was a kid, how skinny and fragile he’d seemed to him, how much attention and love he’d demanded, and how much he’d loved him back, trying so desperately to make up for everything – for Dad, for Mom, for their shitty barebones lives.

And now. He couldn’t touch Sam now, not after... 

“Sammy,” he said again. 

He wanted to say his brother’s name over and over, say it out loud, like it was a magic word. When they were children, Sam’s name had been the most important word in his vocabulary, way more important than his own name. Sam’s name had been a talisman, something special to live up to, something that had always meant so much to him. Jess was wrong, Sam wasn’t just his true north, he was every damn notch on his compass. 

“Sam, talk to me. What are you talking about: you can’t do this anymore? Do what?” 

“This,” Sam hissed. He lifted his head, eyes locking on Dean; he looked devastated, worn away. Dean’s chest clenched up, a string wrapping tight around his heart. “Everything.” 

“Sam, you’re not making a lick of sense, man." 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Sam blurted. “I think about you all the time, I can’t help it.” 

Dean’s stomach flipped over, a tidal wave in his gut, a roll of panic he had to force down. He tried to swallow over the acid and bile, but his throat had gone dry, stuffed, like feathers in his gullet. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, not sure how it got there, and stared at Sam’s lowered head, at the slide of his hair over his face, the long, messy, brown strands, longer than he ever remembered it being. Jonah’d been teasing him for weeks about getting it cut, _it doesn’t suit you like this, Uncle Sammy, get it cut now, you look sleazy_. Kid was such a freaking critic. 

Sam was holding his head in his hands, long fingers digging into his scalp, segments of his red face visible between the splay of his fingers. His fingers ached to touch Sam, to comfort him, to pull him into his arms like he did with Jonah or Simon, like Sam did with Jonah or Simon; reassure him that he hadn’t slept with Jess, that he’d been dumb and confused, that it wasn’t about that. 

“What do you mean, think about me?” 

Sam laughed nastily, a rough, scraping chuckle: “What do you think I mean? You _know_ what I mean. You saw it – before – in the club. You saw me watching you. With that guy.” 

Oh God, oh God. This was happening, this was really and truly happening. Everything was going to change. It had to. They couldn’t deny this – not now – but Sam didn’t know everything. Dean's own bolt of lightning, the sick fantasy that had made him come harder and faster than he had ever done in his life.

Sam was talking, words sliding from his lips, slurred and surreal. “And it’s like – I can’t do this anymore, this – this living together and pretending and playing at being one big happy family, Dean, when the way I feel about you. It’s so fucked up, it’s so wrong and I need to get away from that. I’ve never managed to get away from you. I always end up coming back to you. I can’t stay away. I’m like a stupid goddamned piece of elastic, I can’t help pinging back to you, every time I try. I just – I can’t do it. No, I’m like – I’m like a fuckin’ bungee, and I just wish, that some fucker would cut the rope, just let me plummet, man...”

Sm was rambling on like it was just another drunken night at the Winchester house. Just another Wednesday after football practice, Tuesday after the Deaf and Gay Club, or Saturday night when the boys were in bed and they’d had barbecue and Bobby or whoever had left and they’d watched one of Sam’s endless supplies of NetFlix movies, trading stories and dumb jokes and work anecdotes, Sam trying to explain exactly what freaking _habeas corpus_ actually meant and how the British parliamentary system worked and why health care reform was such a non-starter, “’Cause we suck, dude, this country – us – we fuckin’ suck, don’t know a good thing when it’s thrust in our stupid,fat faces...” Dean ragging on him for being a commie-loving homo, Sam rolling his eyes and punching him in the arm and saying, “You voted Democrat too last time, Dean, I know you did, you’re ONE OF US, man, don’t pretend like you don’t care about this shit.”

And if Dean could get the words out, he could make some lame-ass joke right now, something about how Sam just couldn’t quit him, something to break this world-ending tension. But he couldn’t get the words out, and Sam was staring at him, _staring_ at him, eyes huge and dark and dazzling like the Impala’s high beams cutting down the blacktop.

“Sam,” he said, because all other words seemed to have left him. 

Sam stared at him for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth crooked upwards, fond and heart-breaking, until his lips were shaping Dean’s name. “Dean,” Sam breathed, and Dean realized in one wild moment that Sam was going to kiss him now, that this was a truly momentous thing and maybe they should be filming it for posterity, adding it to their home movie collection along with Simon’s first steps or Jonah’s first words. But Sam’s lips were already on his, Sam’s hand on the back of his neck, drawing him in, his own hands resting dumb and useless in his lap. There was no tongue, just a long press of lips.Sam sighing out his name as his eyelashes grazed Dean’s cheeks. 

It was the most intense and the most surreal kiss Dean had ever had. 

The kiss – whatever it was – ended. Sam drew his head back and blinked, his eyes opening, closing, opening, closing, flutter of long,delicate eyelashes against the curve of his eye sockets, those slanted, fox-like eyes that were taking Dean’s breath away. 

“Sorry,” Sam murmured, and he lurched to his feet, and stumbled across the room, until he was gone. 

Dean raised his hand to his lips. They still tingled, the warm impression of Sam’s mouth lingering. 

Sam had just kissed him. 

His brother, Sam, had just kissed him. 

And it had been... not exactly good, but it hadn’t been bad either, it had been... surreal. 

And oddly familiar. 

Shit! It was slowly coming back to him; this had happened before. His stupid brain fired up and he could remember now: him and Sam, wasted as fuck, scratchy funeral suits, Sam’s epic breakdown in the vestry of the church. And afterwards, getting him home, carrying him up to his old room, sharing a fifth of bourbon and Sam turning to him with wet eyes and wet cheeks, begging and pleading with him to stay with him, pressing his lips to Dean’s. 

Holy shit. 

He’d forgotten about that. He’d just assumed that it was the timing, just Sam’s grief for David sending his brain screwy, messing with him, making him reach for Dean and confuse him with his dead boyfriend. 

But maybe Sam hadn’t been confused at all. Maybe Sam had meant to kiss him. 

He didn’t know what to do with that new information, what it might mean. 

He dropped his hand to the couch, knuckles banging against the half-drunk bottle of vodka Sam had left behind in his haste to get away from him. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, took a long swig. God, but it was disgusting. How did people drink this shit? No wonder chicks always mixed it with Coke or cranberry juice. He tossed it aside in disgust. 

So, what was he going to do now? This would change everything between them, it had to change everything. Would Sam want to leave now, go away and never see him again? 

For a second, fear choked the breath from his lungs, the thought that Sam would leave them rendering him momentarily and literally breathless, just as cold and panicked as Jess’s suggestion that Sam would find someone else, someone to replace his big brother. He didn’t want that, it was frightening how much he didn’t want that. He reached for the bottle again, grimacing as the disgusting, clear liquid slid down his throat; repetition did not make this shit any more drinkable. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, _wiping away the taste of Sam_. The thought was sobering and he immediately wanted to take it back. 

There must be something to that, the fact that his immediate reaction to Sam – his kid brother – kissing him hadn’t been disgust but regret. Not regret that Sam had done it, but regret that he might’ve erased Sam’s imprint on him, negated it somehow. So, not disgusted then, but… 

…Horrified? Aroused? Stunned? 

He was stunned alright, that was true. Grimly, he unscrewed the cap of the bottle, took another swig – Christ, but that stuff was disgusting – why was he even persevering? He should go to the kitchen, find something more drinkable. But Sam was in the kitchen, he could hear the tap running, the old water heater groaning and shuddering. Sam’d be in there, silently freaking out, splashing water on his face and thinking that Dean hated him, wanted him gone, out of their lives for good. 

He could never hate Sam. He didn’t think he was capable of functioning that way. Jeannie had fallen out with her sister after she'd taken their mother’s armoire which had been promised to Jeannie when the old lady got moved into a nursing home. She and her sister hadn’t spoken for nearly three years since then, over a freaking armoire. He couldn’t comprehend that; when he and Sam fought, then neither of them could bear it. The last big fight they’d had was that one back in March when Sam had gone running off to the big gay bookstore and Dean had sleepwalked through two days before giving in and running after him to beg him to come back. Jess was right, he was lost without Sam. So for both their sakes he had to fix this, and as he was the oldest and the most at fault, it was his responsibility to do just that. 

He got to his feet, bottle swinging between two fingers as he made his way to the kitchen. 

Sam was standing by the sink, faucet running in the background, staring at his reflection in the dark window pane. Dean saw Sam’s shoulders stiffen as he realized Dean was there, and he watched him turn off the water. Sam turned around slowly, putting his back to the sink. His face was wet where he’d splashed it with water, and his bangs were dark and sodden, sticking in clumps to his forehead. 

Dean stared at him; he wanted to push the hair back off his face, cradle his head in his hands. He remembered watching him in the bath when he was young, remembered lathering up his hair with shampoo, tipping water from a measuring cup over his head to wash the suds away ‘cause they hadn’t had a shower then, just the old stained tub, Sammy tilting his head back, right back so the soap didn’t get in his eyes, he’d been so prissy about that, his little bratty brother. 

The memory made him ache, a physical pain deep in his chest, tears burning at the back of his eyes. There was so much here, too much to put into words. 

He swallowed, finding his voice again: “Truce?” 

Sam made a pained, choking sound at the back of his throat. “Dean. I.” He swallowed, tried again, this time the words coming out in a rush like they’d done in the big den. “I’m gonna leave, it’s the only thing we can do now. I can’t be here, near you, with you so close, not now that you know. And I can’t be close to the boys, ‘cause this is some fucked up shit and they deserve better than this.” 

He walked forward as Sam spoke, sure and deliberate. He halted in front of Sam and set the bottle of vodka on the draining board by Sam’s elbow. He looked up, directly into Sam’s eyes, and placed his hand on his face, palm cupping his brother’s cheek. He pushed the damp tendrils of Sam’s hair out of his eyes and felt Sam nuzzle his hand, like a horse responding to the touch, like he was starved for it. Hell, he probably was starved for it, if Sam had been feeling this way about him for all this time. 

Jesus. 

He dropped his hand, his voice sounding a lot less tremulous out loud than it did in his head: “Listen to me. This is your home, this house; Dad left it to both of us. It’s our family home. It’s where you belong, with me and with Jonah and Simon. We need you, man. _I_ need you.” 

“I can’t,” Sam gritted out. “I can’t do it anymore. I told you, you need to cut the cord.” 

Oh, Christ, Sam and his melodramatic metaphors. Dean took a breath, leaned forward, placing his hands either side of his brother’s face, cradling it between his palms as he stared into his wet, bloodshot eyes. 

“You think I care about any of that? You think I give a shit that you have this – whatever it is – _thing_ for me." 

“Wanting to fuck you is not just some _thing_ , Dean! It’s sick! It’s perverted! I’m sick!”

Sam grabbed his hands by the wrists, yanked them apart, and pushed him forcefully away. Dean staggered backwards, feet skidding on the slick linoleum; he collided with the table and tumbled to the floor, head cracking against one of the table legs. 

He swore and raised his hand to his throbbing head, “ _Fuck!_ ” 

Sam sank to the floor beside him, looming over him, babbling helplessly, his face scrunched up in horror. “Dean, Dean, you okay, you okay, man? I’m sorry, so sorry, I didn’t mean to push you like that – I didn’t–“ 

“Jesus, Sammy, shut up,” he groaned. 

He fumbled one hand upwards, fisted his fingers in Sam’s shirt and hauled him down into a kiss. 

It was more a collision of lips and teeth than an actual kiss, a mash-up of mouths and lips and bumping noses. Sam ouffed out a winded breath, sour alcohol smell puffing against Dean’s mouth. Dean wrinkled his nose and tried to focus on Sam’s face, but they were too close together for him to see anything more than his brother’s pores, the pink clammy tinge of his skin and the small mole on his top lip. God, his head was throbbing, thick, hard stamp-stamp-stamp of beats in his brain that was only partly about his fucking head wound and all that gross-ass vodka, but also because Sam was so close, sprawled all over him like a human blanket, like he’d just beaten Dean in one of their wrestling contests. 

Sam exhaled, and started to press kisses against Dean’s lips, his chin, his cheeks, his eyelids, all the time muttering Dean’s name under his breath like a litany. And God, this was so strange, Sam was kissing him, caressing and touching his face with this gentle reverence. So much love and adoration in the way his fingertips smoothed over Dean’s face. 

_I’ve never managed to get away from you. I always end up coming back to you, Dean, I can’t stay away_.

He’d always been happy to have Sam come back, he'd never coped well when Sam was elsewhere. He’d felt so guilty when Sam’d finally decided not to take up that place at Stanford, when Sam had switched to the KU program. But there’d been some bigger part of him that was relieved, so grateful that he wasn’t going to lose Sam, they’d still be able to see each other every day and hang out whenever they wanted. Through every momentous event in their lives, all their failures and all their triumphs, Sam had always been there for him, and he’d always been there for Sam. He knew he would never have gotten this far without Sam, they stood each other up, had each other’s backs. They were brothers…

…brothers who were currently lying on the kitchen floor, making out with each other. 

He put his hand on the back of Sam’s head, twisted his fingers in his thick hair, murmured, “Sam, Sammy, hold up a second." 

Sam raised his head, blinked at him. He looked dazed, pupils black and eyes lidded. _Shit_ , he was aroused; he was turned on – turned on by him. Sam smiled slowly, lazily, his eyes roaming over Dean’s face like a caress, drinking him all in, slow and seductive and simmering. He shifted, moving his body over Dean’s, bearing down into him– 

Fuck, that was Sam’s cock, that was Sam’s hard cock, pressing down against his hip. Christ. 

Dean shuddered, twisted his head away from Sam’s gaze so he was staring at the kitchen cupboards. God, this floor was dirty, and the cupboards looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years, which was probably the case. 

He shut his eyes, knowing he needed to regroup, to get his breath back, figure out what the fuck was going on, what the fuck he was doing lying on this (dirty) kitchen floor, letting his kid brother kiss him and grind his hard cock down into him. 

“Dean,” Sam whispered. He placed a hand on Dean’s head, forcibly turning it so they were back to facing each other again, although Dean’s eyes were still tight shut. “Look at me, please, Dean.” 

He sounded like he was begging, and Dean couldn’t bear to hear Sam sound like that so he opened his eyes. 

“You don’t want this,” Sam said quietly. He slid off Dean’s body till he was kneeling beside him, hands resting on his thighs. “You don’t want me like I want you.” He sounded like his heart was breaking, and that was something else Dean couldn’t bear, something he would do anything to make better. 

“No, no, not like that at all,” he stammered. He pushed himself into a sitting position - God damn his head hurt. “Sam, no, I just – this is new to me, this guy stuff. I just – you gotta give me some time, okay?” 

“It’s the guy stuff that’s freaking you out?” Sam raised his eyes to him, he looked incredulous. He shook his head. “You’re so weird. I can’t believe you’re freaked out by that, and not – you know – the whole _incest_ thing?” 

Dean flinched, licked his lips. “Well, uh, that too. So, you gotta give me some time. Just don’t do anything crazy, don’t leave us.” 

Sam’s expression softened. “I would never leave you. Even if you decided to kick me out, and I wouldn’t blame you for that, seriously I wouldn’t. But I’d still hope that you’d let me see the boys now and again.” 

“I’d never do that! I’d never kick you out. Can’t believe you’d even think that.” 

“Dean, I’ve been jackin’ off to fantasies of you since I was fifteen years old. I wouldn’t blame you.” 

Dean swallowed, Jesus – was Sam – seriously – since he was _fifteen?_

He got cautiously to his feet, holding onto the edge of the table for support. “So, you, uh, since you were fifteen?” he stammered. 

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, that muscle jumping at the edge of his jaw. “I, uh,” he broke off, swallowed, “God, it’s such a relief to finally tell you. Truth is I thought I’d go to my grave never saying anything.” 

“I’m glad you’ve told me.” It was strange to realize that he truly meant that. He was glad he knew; he hated Sam keeping anything from him. He wet his lips, and when he spoke again his voice sounded weirdly conversational in his ears, “You know, Sammy, you and me, we’re not like normal brothers.” 

“No, we’re not,” Sam agreed. He tilted his head back. His eyes looked huge in the stark kitchen light, shiny with unshed tears and terrifyingly guileless, reminding Dean with a wrench of the little kid he used to be. “I love you, Dean. More than anyone or anything, I always have. It’s you, man. And you gotta know that I’ll be cool with whatever you decide. If you think it’s best that I move out, then you’re probably right, and I’ll get it. I’ve been happy, it’s been good these few couple of years with you and me and Jonah and Simon, and it’s not like I’ve been crying into my pillow over you every night, I’ve gotten laid plenty," he trailed off again, shrugging awkwardly.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I kinda noticed.” 

Sam’s mouth twitched, then his face fell, getting serious again. “I know I’m not gonna change. And I know it’s wrong and fucked-up, and God knows that I have tried, but this is it for me. I used to think – before David – that I’d find someone I’d love as much as you, and then I found David, and I loved him. And I tried, Dean, I tried so hard with him. I even thought for a couple of years that maybe I could be happy with him. But, well, you know what happened there. And now – fuck it. It’s up to you, whatever you decide I’m cool with it. I can’t change the way I feel about you, so I’m not gonna try anymore.” 

Dean felt like he’d been holding his breath through the rest of Sam’s speech, unable to look away from the blazing honesty in his brother’s eyes. 

“Sam–“ 

“You don’t need to say anything now. Seriously, man, I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“Sam, shut up. It’s okay.” 

“Huh? What d’you mean?” 

“I, uh,” he hesitated, “this you and me thing,” he waved a hand between the two of them, himself still leaning against the table, ass in the same spot his two sons ate, and Sam still sprawled across the floor, face upturned, hair in his eyes. “You’re pretty convincing, you know that? Goddamn debate champion.” He huffed out a breath, shaking his head and trying to find the words. 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Are you trying to say yes?” 

“Fuck, man, I don’t know…” he trailed off uselessly, swallowing over the lump in his throat. God, his mouth really did taste like ass. Not that he knew what ass tasted like, though Sam probably did, Sam probably knew a lot of sex stuff that he didn’t know. The thought made his stomach lurch, the contents churning nervously and queasily. He’d always sucked at explaining anything, particularly anything relating to feelings or emotions, words were Sam’s thing, not his, but he had to say something. Sam was waiting for his answer, big, pleading Sammy eyes riveted on his face. 

He swallowed and met Sam’s gaze head on. “I’m not saying no.” 

Sam blinked, confused. “So, uh, you want to do this? You want to be with me?” 

“You’re gonna have to give me some time. You can’t just tell me all this shit and expect me to figure all this out right now. I mean, it’s, like, 3am, man, and my head fuckin’ throbs. But later – maybe?” 

“Dean." Sam got slowly to his feet, eying him warily, standing in the middle of the kitchen – _their kitchen_ ¬– the house the two of them had grown up in, the house they were raising two kids in. “That’s – you can take as much time as you need. I just. I gotta know, man, you are serious? You want this too?” 

“I, uh. I guess? Dude, we were just making out, you and me, down there, on the freakin’ floor. And it was – kinda, I dunno, good? And I know that’s gotta be seriously fucked up-” 

“Don’t you think I know that?” Sam interrupted. “Jesus Christ, soon as I figured out how I felt about you, all those years ago, I researched every damn thing I could get my hands on! I knew what I was feeling was not supposed to be possible! I knew that, fuck, I still know it. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference!” He broke off, laughed bitterly for a second, shaking his head. “Way I figure, I’m stuck like this, but you don’t have to be. I don’t want to force you into anything. I’d never do that, ‘cause you’re not like me, you got a chance. You don’t have to go through with this just for my sake. You could get married again, or–“ 

“Not gonna happen,” Dean stated firmly. “I told you that. I don’t want to get married again; I suck at being married. I suck at relationships, period.” 

Sam blinked and raised his hand to push his bangs off his face, the corner of his mouth curling up into a tentative soft smile. “That’s not true, look at us. We don’t suck.” 

“No, we don’t,” Dean agreed. He held his breath as Sam approached once more. Sam paused in front of him and this time it was Sam who leaned in and cupped Dean’s cheek, towering over him, tilting Dean’s head back so their eyes met because Sam – goddamn him - was crazily fucking tall, taller than Dean, taller than a normal-sized person. Sam was tall and strong and big and amazing, and Dean had never been in this position before, never been dominated like this, never felt like the small partner, and it was, God, it was overwhelming, and weirdly, in a seriously fucked-up way, kinda hot. 

“Dean, I think, I think I’m reading you right, but you are saying yes, right? You want this? You want to be with me?” 

Dean took a breath, clearing his brain of all those stupid, crazy, sexy thoughts, and stammered out: “Yeah, yeah, I think so,” and it suddenly occurred to him what he was saying, what he was doing here, and that was. 

God, he had no goddamn idea, but his brain was obviously messing with him ‘cause the whole thing just seemed totally fucking absurd, like, beyond crazy. He could feel bubbles of hysteria rising up from his chest like tangible things, all the while Sam’s eyes bored into him, unblinking and filled with drunken and teary-eyed sincerity. 

“God, Dean,” Sam breathed out, his voice breaking over Dean’s name. 

Dean snorted, the hysteria breaking free, erupting in an undignified splutter, degenerating into manic, nervous giggles. 

Sam’s eyes widened as he stared down at him, mouth scrunching up, making him look a little hurt. He dropped his hand from Dean’s face as if he was about to pull away, but Dean reacted quickly, knotting his fingers in Sam’s t-shirt and tugging him in until they were close enough to slow dance. 

“Sam, no, no, man, it’s not you, it’s just," he hesitated, trying to get his breath back, stop the stupid, shameful giggles from breaking free any further. “Fuck, this is so freaking weird. I can’t believe that we’re – that you and me – we’re talking about us, you know, _doing it_?” 

Sam’s mouth twitched, he raised his hands to place them over Dean’s, squeezed their fingers together. “Yeah,” he agreed. Sam was close enough for him to smell the rank, sour scent of alcohol on his breath, and he pulled a face. 

“Dude, your breath kinda stinks.” 

“You don’t smell so sweet yourself.” 

“Liar.” 

This time it was Sam’s turn to snort out loud, the spark of crazy hilarity in his eyes. 

“See what I mean – this – it’s fuckin’ insane!” 

“Yeah, I know,” he said quietly. He dropped his hands from Dean’s grip and sighed, “Man, I need a drink.” 

Sam turned, crossed to the other side of the room and reached up to take two chipped glasses and the whiskey from the cupboard. He poured two generous measures and held out one glass. Dean took it from his brother’s hand, taking a grateful sip as he lowered his head, eyes skating over the kitchen floor. His throat felt sore, his mouth dry and eyes scratchy. He needed to go to bed, get some fucking sleep, but he still felt jittery, sort of wired and edgy. 

So, what was supposed to happen now? Had he just agreed to have sex with Sam, a relationship with Sam? Was this what they’d agreed to? 

Whatever he’d agreed to, he was going to go through with it now, however long it took. No take-backs. It was one of the few (the only) rules Dad had given them when they were kids: no take-backs. And more importantly, it was what Sam wanted, it would make Sam happy. And, well, it really hadn’t been that bad when Sam had kissed him, when they’d made out right there on the kitchen floor, Sam’s body grinding down into him, trapping him, his huge hands all over him. It hadn’t felt all that different from all those occasions when they’d wrestled or play-fought with each other or even during football practice when Sam tackled him, and he’d always secretly kinda liked that, wrestling with Sam, the two of them fighting for dominance. 

He and Sam weren’t like normal brothers and that was for damn sure. Hell, virtually every person they ever met thought they were a couple, and everyone who did know them always had something to say about their “unusual closeness”. But none of that had ever mattered to him. He’d never given a crap what other people thought about them. After all, people had been talking shit about them all his life. Everybody had something to say about the Winchesters. 

He jumped as Sam’s big hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing hard. As usual, Sam had sneaked up on him in those freaky, thick socks of his. “Hey, hey, it’ll be okay,” Sam reassured him. “You don’t gotta do anything you don’t want to.” 

The use of his own familiar phrase in Sam’s mouth made him feel calm, restoring his equanimity some. He turned his head, meeting Sam’s eyes. He, no, _they_ could do this. It would be okay. This was Sam, just Sam, his little brother, his Sammy. The two of them could do anything together; he had nothing to hide with Sam. 

 

**

 

He woke up to the sound of someone pounding on the front door. He groaned and turned over in bed, suddenly confused when he realized something – someone – was pressed up against him, a strong, powerful arm slung around his back, pulling him into a hard, big body, legs tangled up together.

Sam. Fuck. He was in bed with Sam and they were both naked and Sam was _cuddling_ him? Christ, had this been going on all night? Had they fallen asleep like this? Naked and snuggling?

They’d agreed last night all drunk and end-of-the-world serious that they had to start somewhere. And last night, after more beer and more vodka, falling into bed with Sam beside him, giggling and exchanging stories like they were kids again, he’d felt this weird sort of elation, like he was wired on way too much coffee and caffeine pills. Looking at Sam’s face, seeing the way his brother’s eyes had glinted in the moonlight spilling in through the chink in the curtains and the white, gleaming strip of his smile, he’d known that Sam was feeling the same crazy, surreal euphoria. Last night, he’d felt like he could really go through with it all. He could really and truly give Sam what he wanted, have a – _say it, Dean, say it_ – a _sexual_ relationship with him – with his brother. 

He swallowed, the terror and panic starting to churn in his stomach. He couldn’t, Jesus, with Sam? Sam was his _brother_. Sam was– 

Sam was naked in bed with him; wound around him with his freakishly strong arms and legs, like goddamn tree trunks, like a freaking Ent.

He swallowed again, tried to find his voice. “Uh, Sam?” he croaked weakly. 

Sam didn’t stir. 

There was another bout of pounding on the front door. 

“Sam?” he tried again. 

Sam made an unhappy, needy noise and nuzzled his mouth back into the crook of Dean’s armpit like it was sweet, sweet nectar. It just figured that despite his bigger size, Sam was plastered to him like he was still the smaller one, head pressed under Dean’s chin so his annoyingly thick hair was tickling at Dean’s mouth and nose and practically suffocating him. 

“ _Sam_!” 

This time Sam did respond, raising his head and blinking blearily. 

“Huh? Dean?” he murmured, looking like nothing more than a lost puppy. 

Dean gritted his teeth and hissed out, “Yes, it’s me! Obviously!” 

“Hey,” said Sam, not noticing, or pretending not to notice the aggravated tone in Dean’s voice. Instead he was grinning at him goofily, like he had cartoon hearts in his eyes. Dean stared at him; it was impossible to resent Sam when he looked like that. “Hey,” Sam repeated, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Dean’s shoulder. “Sleep well?” 

“I think the kids are back,” Dean answered, trying his best not to flinch from the weird – really fucking weird – sensation of Sam’s mouth on his bare skin. 

“Oh,” said Sam. 

“I think they’re at the door,” he added uselessly. As if on cue, the sound of the opening bars of _Paranoid_ started up from the tumble of clothes strewn across his bedroom floor. It had to be Jess, trying to get him on his cell phone because no one was answering the damn door. “Uh, that’s probably them now, calling me to let them in.” 

Sam tilted his head back and gave him an amused look. “Well, don’t you think you should go down and open the door?” 

Dean blinked, then pulled away and slid off the bed. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him as he pulled his jeans on over his naked ass, not bothering with a shirt as he stumbled out the bedroom door. 

He tugged the front door open with its usual sticky wrench to reveal an extremely pissed looking Jess, Simon with tears rolling over his round cheeks and Jonah plugged into his iPod and humming along to what sounded depressingly and unsurprisingly like _Poker Face_ and looking entirely unconcerned by his father’s non-appearance. Dean had barely time to blink or say hello before Simon leaped forward and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing his small, wet face into Dean’s crotch and holding on tight. 

Dean dropped his hand to his son’s head and ran his fingers gently through Simon’s wavy, dark hair, his other hand lowering to rub his back. Jonah gave him a breezy nod and pushed past him to get inside, still humming along to the tinny blare from his headphones. 

“Why did it take you so long to open the door?” demanded Jess. “We thought something might’ve happened to you. Simon thought something might’ve happened to you.” 

He raised his hand from Simon’s hair to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck, avoiding her mega-watt glare and suddenly very aware that he was shirtless and disheveled and that he had some vague recollection of Sam laughing at him and wrestling with him, and winning ( _damn him_ ) and then giving him a massive hickey just above his collarbone as a reward. He glanced down at his chest, realizing with a sinking feeling that oh yes, that had most definitely happened, and no, it wasn’t a figment of his twisted imagination. 

“Sorry, yeah, I guess I was just sleeping really heavily,” he stammered uncomfortably. 

“Right,” Jess said tightly, her eyes narrowing in on him in a way that made him think that she had definitely spotted the massive hickey. Shit. She held out her hand, dangling the keys to the Impala from her fingers like they were something distasteful. “Here’s your car keys.” 

He nodded and took them from her, “Thanks.” 

“And here’s their stuff.” She dropped a duffle bag of Simon and Jonah’s clothes to the ground by his feet. It landed with a solid thud. “You’ll have to do laundry. I forgot to tell you that last night. We did some painting; there was a lot of mess.” 

“Oh. Right,” he nodded, still avoiding her eyes. 

He could imagine what she was thinking: after their embarrassing and super-awkward conversations last night, his pathetic attempt at seducing her and with the way he looked now, it was obvious she was assuming that he’d gone out, gotten even more wasted and hooked-up with some random chick. Ironically, that version of last night’s seriously fucked-up events sounded a lot better than what had really happened. 

“Well, I guess I’d better get this one inside,” he added lamely. He bent down to retrieve the bag and let his hand drop to Simon’s shoulder, keeping the boy close as he ushered him inside. “Thanks so much for having them.” 

“It’s not a chore, Dean,” she said pointedly, back already turned. 

He watched her retreat down the road, then he crouched down and pulled Simon into a full-body hug, pressing his mouth to the boy’s hair and breathing in the soothing, familiar smell of his kiddy shampoo. 

 

**

 

The rest of the day was strange, even by recent standards. He’d catch Sam looking at him, _looking_ at him, as in checking-him-out looking at him. It was weird, and made his skin feel too tight, kinda buzzy and not big enough, not thick enough, as if Sam couldn’t just see and scrutinize what was on the outside, but could see exactly what was on the inside as well. But that was not really anything new. Sam had always known him better than anyone else, always gotten him better than anyone else. Sam knew how much he sucked, how much he’d fucked up his life, and yet Sam still loved him, still wanted him, had wanted him for years and years, and had never gotten over it. He wasn’t sure that he was ever going to be able to get to grips with that. It was awe-inspiring that he could inspire that kind of love and dedication in anybody, least of all someone as smart and amazing as Sam. 

In the end, they took the boys to the lake. It was a hot day, but he knew a spot around the much less populated bank that was always a lot quieter than the main drag. It helped that there’d been some drunken, widely-reported sightings years ago of alligators around there (which no… not in Kansas). Dean had often run across deeply stupid people in his job, and it just proved his point when he saw how his fellow Kansans seemed to prefer camping out on the overcrowded main stretch to heading around to the more secluded side where the mythical gators supposedly lurked. 

Dean sat on his beach towel with Simon on his lap, blowing up the armbands that he’d shoved onto the boy’s skinny arms, cheeks puffing out like he was a cartoon mouse playing a trumpet. 

_Put sunscreen on_ , Sam told Jonah with a meaningful look. 

Jonah rolled his eyes in a way that Dean knew was copied from him, and squeezed another massive dollop of sunscreen onto his palm, half-heartedly smearing it across his thin legs in stripes. Sam made an exasperated noise and grabbed the bottle from him, squeezing even more onto his own enormous man-paws and slathering it over Jonah’s skinny shoulder blades as the boy wriggled and squirmed, directing dark glares at Sam from his slanted, scowling eyes. Dean watched the movement of his brother’s big, capable fingers and felt his spine prickle, a teasing rush of heat to his gut as he remembered Sam’s hands on his own body. He could feel his face heating up and he knew that Sam was watching him again, could feel Sam’s eyes skating over his own naked back like a touch. 

_Dean, you next_ , Sam signed when he was done with Jonah, a playful smile teasing at the edge of his mouth. 

Dean glared at him and shook his head, mouthing, “No fucking way,” at his brother. 

_C’mon, Dad, you have to_ , added Jonah, _you’ll get all red and gross if you don’t._

Dean finished with Simon’s armbands and dropped a kiss to the top of his head before he let him up. He watched Sam get up from his own towel, an anticipatory look gleaming in his eyes. Sam hadn’t taken off his shirt yet, but he was already in his trunks, his ridiculously long, well-muscled legs uncurling from underneath him as he got to his feet to drop down beside Dean. He sank to Dean’s towel and spread his legs, pulling Dean back into the V of his thighs. 

Dean blushed brilliantly and hissed under his breath so Jonah couldn’t hear, “Sam! Fuck, dude, you can’t be this damn close. The kids-” 

“Lighten up,” murmured Sam, voice low and amused, lips brushing perilously close to the side of Dean’s face, “the kids are just gonna see me putting sunscreen on you. See us touching like we do every single day. You’d prefer to burn? ‘Cause that’s what you’re gonna do if I don’t get this on you.” 

Dean glared at him, while Sam just gave him a serene smile and squirted out a huge dollop of sunscreen onto his palm and gently pressed his hands to Dean’s shoulders, slowly starting to smooth the lotion over every inch of Dean’s back and neck and shoulders. 

Dean shuddered and let his head fall forward so his eyes locked on the faded, colorful weave of the beach towel. Fair enough, Sam had a point about Jonah and Simon. Neither of them seemed at all concerned that their uncle was currently giving their dad the sort of massage that he personally would describe as foreplay. He wasn’t quite sure what that said about his parenting. 

Sam brushed his fingers delicately over the nape of his neck, then down to his collarbone, halting when they came to the embarrassing purple-red hickey. Dean went still, hearing Sam’s intake of breath and feeling him shift closer, close enough for his hard, muscular thighs to brush up against Dean’s hips, his face lowering so he was whispering into Dean’s ear. 

“You have such a gorgeous body, Dean. You have no idea how often I’ve wanted to touch you like this. How much I love seeing my mark on you.” 

Dean gulped, his stomach doing this sudden strange lurching thing. “Sam,” he muttered helplessly. 

“What?” 

“C’mon, man, we’re in public.” 

Sam sighed and withdrew his hands and Dean felt an immediate pang of disappointment. Okay, so it was weird, but it also felt kinda… fuck it, he needed to own up to it already: it felt really fucking good. Sam definitely knew what he was doing with those freakishly big hands of his. 

He could feel Sam watching him with this brazen look of appreciation on his face as he got to his feet and held out his hand for Simon. He pried Simon’s glasses carefully off his face and handed them back to Sam who placed them in the glasses case he’d brought with him, (seriously, only Sam would bring a freaking glasses case with him on a trip to the lake). He curled his fingers tightly around his son’s hand as they ran down towards the lake, trying to catch up with Jonah. The water was cool and clear around Dean’s toes as he waded in, but Jonah was more adventurous, bounding and splashing until he was waist high, turning to sign madly to his younger brother: _It’s okay, come on, not cold_. Dean begged to differ, it was definitely cold after being in the sun, but Simon, emboldened by Jonah’s example, splashed in after him, which meant Dean had to suck it up and follow. 

It wasn’t too bad once he’d submerged all of his body and started to swim around, circling both boys, keeping within arm’s reach of Simon and a tentative eye on Jonah who had decided to head out towards a rock about 20 yards out, striking out with his gangly, loose-limbed stroke. Simon grabbed onto Dean’s arm, and waved after his brother, a determined look creeping into his face. Dean nodded, _Okay. Stay close to me,_ and swam slowly after his oldest boy, making sure Simon was keeping up. Jonah was already out of the water when they got to the rock, sprawled across its slimy, gray surface, body glimmering in the white sunlight. Dean climbed out the water and sat on the edge of the rock, dangling his legs in the water and idly watching Simon and Jonah prying through the bunch of water weeds on the other side of the rock, apparently on the hunt for interesting lake creatures. 

He could see Sam easily from this distance, they weren’t that far out at all. Sam’d taken off his shirt and was sitting with one arm propped up behind him, the other raised to shield his eyes as he chatted with a couple of guys who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. They were standing over Sam, both wearing obscenely small speedos that seriously left nothing at all to the imagination. Dean frowned and watched closely. Even from this distance he could tell that Sam was flirting with these two: it was evident in the easy, languorous sprawl of his body, the way his head was cocked to one side, how his hand pushed back his thick, dark hair. He felt a stab of irritation in his gut. Damn it, they were having a family day out, Sam could hook up with some desperate twosome on some other occasion, except, _no_ , Sam couldn’t because Sam was supposed to be crazy about him, to be wanting – God, some sort of fucking relationship with _him_ , and not wanting to continue fucking around with whatever pair of gay dudes just happened to be strolling past. 

He ground his teeth together and turned his head to check up on Jonah and Simon. Jonah had something cupped in his hands and Simon was pressed up against him, peering down at it. Dean got to his feet and joined them, grimacing when he noticed that what Jonah was holding was a leech, its mouth latched onto the meat of Jonah’s palm, its long, sinuous body wriggling as it fed. Both Jonah and Simon were staring at it in rapt fascination as it slowly bloated with blood. 

_What is it, Daddy_? Simon asked him, big, hazel eyes blinking in wonderment. 

He frowned, truthfully he had no freaking idea what the sign for a leech was, even if there was a goddamn sign for the disgusting thing, and Jonah was looking up at him blankly, shrugging his shoulders. 

He spelled out the word, explaining, _A creature that lives in water and feeds on blood, like a vampire._

Simon’s expression got wide and enthralled, and he reached forward to prod at it with his fingertip. _Is it eating Jonah’s blood?_

_Yes_ , Dean told him. He frowned at his older son, _That’s enough. Keep still._

Jonah made a disappointed face, but he obeyed, holding his palm up so Dean could lean in and carefully detach the disgusting thing. He threw it back into the water, giving an imperceptible shudder. He’d lost the urge to swim in the lake, not if it was full of those things; they gave him the goddamn creeps. Jonah’s hand was bleeding sluggishly, and Dean held his wrist, examining it. 

_You’re okay_ , he told him.

Jonah pouted and looked up at him, _Dad, it’s still bleeding._

_It will stop. Let’s go back to Uncle Sammy now. Perhaps, if you’re both good, we can get ice cream later._

Jonah immediately broke into a big, sunny smile that was replicated on his brother’s face, injuries and leeches forgotten completely. Under the Sammy food dictatorship, ice cream was a rare and real treat, to be used sparingly, when it was truly deserved. This, in Dean’s opinion, would qualify enough. Besides, it was a hot day and he was totally in the mood for a huge ice cream sundae. 

Sam was waiting for them, nearer to the shore, having finally entered the water. Of course it only came up to his waist while on Dean it was at chest height. It was annoying. It was also annoying just how unreasonably good Sam looked, water droplets rolling down his smooth, bronzed and ridiculously cut chest and stomach like they were lucky to be there, those dark blue trunks clinging to his ass like a second skin. He could remember a time when seeing Sam like that – doing his best impression of that damn scene from _Casino Royale_ \- would’ve done nothing to him, when Sam was just Sam, just his little brother Sammy, but now… that weird, nervous fluttering was back, that warm, stirring ache in his balls. 

Seriously, he was beginning to have some major doubts about his sexuality. 

“I saw you watching me with those two guys,” Sam whispered to him when Jonah and Simon had turned away to splash through the water on the edge of the shore. 

Dean flinched, shot him an irritated look. “Whatever.” 

“They were a couple, here on vacation. They suggested that I join them for a threesome. Can you believe it – on vacation, _here_?” 

“What did you say?” 

“Are you kidding? I said no of course.” He drew closer, water rippling around them as he sidled up to Dean. Dean held himself still, then felt Sam’s hand reach out, grab his ass under water. 

“Sam! Jesus!” he hissed. 

“C’mon, no one can see, it’s under water.” 

“I don’t care. It’s – fuck, dude, it’s weird. I can’t just – you can’t just go around getting fucking propositioned by guys at the lake for orgies while the kids are here for a goddamn day out, and then slink up to me and–“ he grabbed onto Sam’s wrist and wrenched his brother’s hand away, giving him a frustrated glare. 

“Dean,” said Sam calmly, “stop freaking out.” 

“Well, excuse me if you feeling me up – my own brother – underwater is freaking me out?” he retorted. “I can’t just. God, Sam, I can’t just suddenly be okay with all this!” 

“I thought you wanted it,” Sam said, and his voice sounded small and uncertain. “You said last night–“

Dean swallowed, turned his head so their eyes met, Sam was looking a little reproachful, upset even. “I know what I said, and I meant it. But – it’s – it’s gonna take time, man.” 

“But you like it when I touch you?” 

Dean blinked, turned away from Sam’s hopeful gaze, his eyes searching for his sons again. Jonah seemed to be demonstrating the breast stroke to Simon now. His arms held out to show how to do the round kicking leg movements, his head cocked towards Simon as Simon regarded him thoughtfully. He could remember being there the first time Sam learned to swim without his armbands, how proud he’d felt that Sammy could do that now. Jonah and Simon were closer in age than he and Sammy had been, but still, the idea that his boys might one day grow up and follow the same pattern that he and Sam seemed to have fallen into.

Jesus, God, no, he couldn’t think of that. No fucking way. Not his beautiful boys. Fuck, this whole situation was so fucked up. Why had he even agreed with Sam to go along with this? Why had he said yes to him? 

And yet. 

Man, it had felt so fucking good when Sam had put the sunscreen on him. And last night, when Sam had curled around him and sucked soft, loving kisses into his neck and shoulders, and whispered all that stuff to him as he fell asleep. No one had ever adored him like that, not one of his wives or girlfriends, Jess or Reiko or Cora or any of the others. It made him feel powerful, knowing and hearing and seeing how much Sam loved him, how much Sam wanted him. But it was terrifying too, because he knew just how easily and irrevocably they could fuck this up, how much he could hurt Sam if it all went wrong. And not just Sam, but their whole family, Jonah and Simon too. 

But Sam loved the boys, loved them as much as Dean did, like they were his own children. He would never even suggest this if he thought the two of them might end up hurting Jonah or Simon. 

“I, uh, yeah, some of it, I think,” he answered finally. 

Sam exhaled, sounding relieved. “Good, good,” he said. Their eyes met for a brief flash of a second and Dean could see the wry curl to his brother’s lip, “I couldn’t – I mean – if me touching you repulsed you then I don’t think we could go anywhere.” 

“It doesn’t repulse me,” Dean said truthfully. “It's just strange, like, new. Like when you’re first experimenting with shit.” 

“Okay, okay.” Sam’s expression got a bit lighter, eyes brightening, “Well, I can definitely work with that.” 

Dean hesitated, ducked his head, he spoke fast, the words spilling from his lips: “Just – Sam, one thing you gotta promise me. No more hook-ups, okay? If it’s gonna be you and me, then I want it to be only you and me. No one else.” 

He thought about the two guys on the beach, fucking Troy at the Deaf and Gay Club, all those guys at the bar leering at Sam, his Sam, and he felt his resolve harden. If they were doing this, then they were doing this right. All or nothing. Him and Sam against the world. 

“I promise,” Sam said immediately. “I, Dean, I want that too, just me and you,” he added, looking a bit shocked, but hopeful, like he couldn’t quite believe what Dean was saying. He huffed out a shy sort of a smile and leaned forward, his hand drifting through the water until it rested on Dean’s side, he caressed him gently with slippery, water-light fingers, the touch sending soft little waves rippling around them. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”


	7. Chapter 7

_I can’t believe life’s so complex,  
When I just wanna sit here and watch you undress _  
This Is Love – PJ Harvey

 

_Two months later_

 

“Hello, Dean.” 

_Where am I?_

“Stop playing games with me. You know exactly where you are.” 

The voice was contemptuous under the cloying, lisping consonants. Dean gulped, tried to squirm away from it, heart thudding. 

_Mommy…_

“Wrong!” screamed the voice, a cackle of mockery twisting from its unseen lips. “So wrong, Dean-o! Mommy’s not here anymore!” 

_Let me go, please, I’m dreaming._

A crack of lightning and the face snapped into focus: grinning mouth and glowing yellow eyes, hunched back and arched shoulders, and Mom – beneath, her golden hair and beautiful unseeing eyes – her mouth blood-red and slack, caught on a jagged scream. 

The same picture it always was. 

He opened his mouth on a wordless scream - clawing for air, for his vanished vocal chords - surrounded by shrouds, around and underneath him and on top of him and—

“Dean, shhh, it’s okay, I’m here. Dean, please, it’s me. It’s Sam.” 

He heard the sound of his own helpless, wracked sobs as if they came from someone else, his voice as rusty and painful as Simon’s. 

“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay, I’m here.” 

“Sammy?” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam said, “it’s Sammy, it’s me.” 

Dean swallowed back the fear, his brain finally registering Sam, the familiar, soothing tone of Sam’s voice, his big warm body looming close. 

“Just another fucking nightmare,” he gritted out bitterly. 

“Shh, yeah, just a nightmare. It’s okay, you’re okay now.” 

They lay in silence for a few minutes, quiet enough for Dean to hear the blood hammering in his skull and the frantic beats of his heart finally start to slow down, the dream fading away, leaving him with that customary feeling of dread and embarrassment. He hated Sam seeing him so exposed and vulnerable and he hated his stupid brain for dredging that crap up, for playing tricks on him and just not letting it go already. It had been nearly twenty-seven years for Christ’s sake, Mom had been dead for twenty-seven years, he should be over it. 

He blinked and turned his head. He could just make out Sam’s face in the dark, the curl of his eyelashes against his cheek and the shiny strip of white teeth. He was watching Dean with that familiar, fascinated Sammy look, like Dean was the only thing worth looking at in the entire world, the look that hadn’t changed since he was eight years old and Dean was teaching him how to throw a curve ball. 

“C’mere,” Sam murmured, drawing his tongue over his bottom lip, and Dean swallowed, shifted closer, closing the gap of a few inches between them until they were close enough for their body heat to bleed together. Sam reached out and cupped the back of Dean’s head, fingers caressing the nape of his neck, making him shiver. 

“You okay?” Sam breathed. 

He nodded, feeling kinda ridiculous again and absurdly irritated by the question. “Yeah, yeah, s’fine.” 

“Good,” Sam said, obviously choosing to ignore the irritation in Dean’s voice. “So, you wanna make out now?” 

He choked back the urge to laugh; instead, shrugging, all faked nonchalance. “If you insist.” 

He kept his eyes open as Sam leaned in, watching his brother’s absurdly familiar face distort in his vision, until he was too close to focus on, just a blur of skin and lips and nostrils and moles. Christ, but that was still so fucking strange, Sam’s face so close to his own, Sam’s lips on his. 

He’d been getting better at this. Over the past couple of months, he’d slowly been getting used to it, to being with Sam. He loved Sam and Sam loved him, and sure, it helped that his body seemed to be 100% behind it, making him feel like he was twenty years old again every time Sam touched him. Admittedly, his brain still wasn’t entirely cooperating, that irritating moral part still nagging at him, still causing his throat to close up and the wave of self-loathing and guilt and terror to overwhelm him when he didn’t forcibly lock it all away. But that was all so minor, so unimportant compared with this: Sam straddling him, Sam kissing his eyelashes and sucking his nipples, Sam running his tongue over the crease of his thigh and the dips of his abs, Sam loving him and worshipping him and making him hard enough to drill cement, hard enough that it fucking hurt. 

“Open your eyes, Dean, look at me, wanna see you, Dean,” Sam whispered. 

He hesitated, caught out for a brief terrifying second, scared that Sam might see - see into his head as only Sam could - see all that guilt and fear that lurked underneath everything, see that part of his brain that he was trying so hard to shut down. The part silently screaming: _This is Sam, this is your brother, this is wrong, you know this is wrong, Dean. What would everybody say if they knew? What would Dad say if he knew what you were doing to little Sammy?_

Jesus, he needed to get a fucking grip, get the fuck over himself. He could do this, he wanted to do this, this wasn’t even new anymore. 

He opened his eyes, gaze locking onto Sam’s shiny-eyed, flushed face. Sam smiled at him, and God, Dean loved him, loved that smile. No one else knew that smile; it was all his. He lifted his hand to cup Sam’s cheek, feeling his brother nuzzle into it, lips kissing the pad of Dean’s thumb. Man, it was ridiculous how much he loved his brother, it was seriously not rational. 

Sam sighed, “Mmm, Dean, you make me crazy, totally fucking crazy, my Dean.” 

Dean’s stomach lurched, insides scrambling at Sam’s words, that tight coil of heat expanding like the element in a water heater. He groaned, changed his grip on his brother’s face, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling him down into another kiss. Sam sank into him, grinding his erection down against Dean’s belly, sliding his hands under Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean pulled out the kiss and gasped for air, Sam’s panted breaths warm and humid against his neck. 

“Sam,” he whispered, “c’mon, on your back – let me." 

Sam rolled off him, bed shaking as he moved. He sprawled onto his back, tossed one long arm over his head in a pose of utter abandonment, fingers brushing the headboard, hips arching up from the mattress, cock jutting up from his body, slapping against his belly, big and fat and painfully hard. He trailed one enormous hand down his body, moving to cup his balls, fist his erection, eyes locked on Dean’s face. “Look at this, Dean, see this. See how crazy you make me.” 

Dean licked his lips and surged up from the bed, straddling his brother in one smooth move, hands braced either side of his head. 

Sam stared up at him, eyes wide and feverish in anticipation, tongue darting out to lick his lips. He looked curiously young, that excited spark in his eyes making him look eight years old again. Eight years old and boasting to his big brother how he got full marks on his pop quiz, how he’d overheard Miss Ingham tell Miss Groves that Sammy Winchester was the smartest student she’d had in years. 

Dean blinked and resolutely buried the memory to the back of his head. Holding his breath, he quickly wrapped his hand around Sam’s cock and squeezed. Sam let out a moan and his hand shot out, fingers curling around Dean’s wrist as if he was stilling him. 

Dean shook the hand off, raising one imperious older-brother eyebrow. “Don’t impede me.” 

“Impede?” Sam mouthed, quirking up his own eyebrow in turn, because even while getting an awesome handjob Sam could be a snotty, little bitch. 

Dean manfully ignored him, instead turning all his concentration on the slide of Sam’s cock through his fingers, the twist of his wrist and flick of his thumb that got Sam to shiver and curse in that totally satisfying way. 

So far, they hadn’t managed to get much further than this, and Dean wasn’t yet sure whether to be secretly relieved or seriously frustrated. Sure they’d been taking it slow, Sam was anxious to not push things, and truthfully, they hadn’t had time for any serious experimentation: too many double-shifts and late nights, and both boys had been sick, demanding even more of their time. So, even after two fucking months, all they’d managed was lots of making out, a couple of steamy showers, and a few messy hand-jobs. 

His glided his hand up and down Sam’s cock, squeezing the hardness in his fist. Sam’s cock was kinda nice, he decided, big and thick and smooth and warm in his hand. And although he was hardly a good judge of how attractive a guy’s cock was, (he was supposed to be straight after all) he’d had years of experience of football locker rooms to know when a guy’s junk looked freaky and when it was – well - easier on the eye. Sam’s cock was definitely easy on the eye, and in terms of size and girth and all round aesthetics, it was damned impressive, nearly as nice as his own. It felt good in his hand – and it was even – it was even kinda nice – kinda sexy - at least his own dick seemed to think so, bobbing around, hard and proud and totally distracting. 

Sam let out a moan, and Dean flicked his gaze to his brother’s face. H his eyelashes were starting to flutter, that glorious blissed-out expression spreading over his face. All of which meant Sam was getting close, Sam was gonna come. His little brother, always telegraphing too early. Dean allowed himself a small, fond smile, the rush of affection overwhelming for a second. He leaned in closer, his shadow painting Sam from head to toe, blocking the faint light shining in through the half-shut curtains. He placed his other hand on Sam’s balls, cupping them gently. Sam shuddered, his eyes snapped open, and he reached up, fingers locking around Dean’s bicep as his lips parted. 

It didn’t take much longer. Sam cried out, stuttered over a breath, his fingers tightening their grip on Dean’s arm as he shot, white strings of come striping his flat, hard belly. Dean sat back after wringing out the last remnants of his brother’s orgasm, and grinned, feeling deeply satisfied with himself. 

“Better?” 

Sam sighed blissfully, “That was awesome. Thanks, man.” 

Dean bent over the side of the bed to retrieve his dirty boxers, using them to wipe up the mess, aware the entire time of Sam’s eyes on him, as if he was trying to figure something out. He felt his stupid face start to redden; feeling oddly self-conscious now it was all over, now that he’d jerked his little brother off. 

Jesus. Had he really just done that? For real? 

He swallowed and turned his head away from Sam’s scrutinizing gaze to drop the dirty boxers back onto the floor. 

“You know, it’s my turn now,” Sam said conversationally. 

Dean didn’t turn his head, keeping his back to his brother, his gaze skating over the cluttered shapes on top of his dresser: books he never had time to read, loose change and gnarly-toothed combs, the framed photos from his and Jess’s wedding that he’d been too lazy to remove. His mind floated back to that day: him and Sam at the altar waiting for Jess, turning to Sam, begging him: _Sammy, tell me I’m doing the right thing._ He’d been terrified, so close to running away. He’d needed Sam’s reassurance, needed Sam to tell him yes, to have his back. 

Man, he should’ve known. It had always been about Sam. 

He licked his lips and turned back to his brother, swinging his legs back onto the bed, toes scraping against his brother’s calf. 

Sam smiled at him. “You back with me now?” 

He shrugged. “Looks like. What you gonna do about it?” 

Sam’s smile got evil. “I’m gonna suck your cock. If you want me to.” 

He hesitated for a second; handjobs were one thing, but blowjob.- 

Then again, Sam was gay; giving head was probably no different from shaking someone’s hand for Sam. Hell, _especially_ for Sam, because Sammy had definitely gotten more than his fair share of action, which also meant that Sam had to be pretty fucking good at it. 

“Are you sure?” 

Sam chuckled. “Christ, man, you have no idea how many times I’ve fantasized about doing it.” 

Um, okay, then. Dean flushed, even after feeling and hearing the proof of Sam’s long-held passion for him, it was still so strange to think that Sam – his brother Sammy – had really and truly been jerking off to fantasies of him since he was a freaking teenager. He was really, _really_ never going to come to terms with that. 

“Dean, I give _awesome_ head. You think that guy who blew you in that club was good, well, I am _so_ much better than him. Fuck it, I should know, he blew me too.” 

Well, in that case, there was only one way to play this now. 

“Okay, stud, show me what you got.” 

Sam almost laughed out loud as he dived on top of Dean, pinning him to the bed and looming over him, braced on all fours. Dean licked his lips, blinked at his brother’s shadowed face, the tantalizing curl of Sam’s lip and arch of his eyebrows promising something special. Sam smirked, and slowly, languorously, slid down Dean’s body until his mouth was hovering over Dean’s erection. 

Sam didn’t tease him any further but just went for it, swallowing him down in one huge mouthful that had Dean gasping out loud and arching up from the mattress in his best porn star impersonation. Sam’s mouth felt huge around him, licking and slurping and running his tongue over the head as his lips sank up and down and up and down in a way that was making his brain pound and his blood spin. He felt engulfed, completely taken over, like his body had transformed into silvery, oily liquid and had dripped off the bed, like he was spreading across the entire floor, boneless and useless, completely unaware of what he was doing, what he was saying, only realizing as he felt Sam press one finger to his lips that he’d been speaking aloud, babbling incoherent, sloppy, embarrassing words: _Jesus, fuck, Sam, God, Sam, fuck - so close, Sammy, so good, so fuckin’ good, God -_

Sam stilled, and Dean felt his brother’s finger stroke lovingly over his bottom lip, heard a long, sighing breath fall from Sam’s mouth. He glanced down his body, gulping helplessly when Sam’s eyes met his, so dark he could barely see his irises, the beads of sweat on Sam’s upper lip, and the red flush to his cheeks and chest, and his mouth - Christ – his little brother’s big, beautiful, generous mouth stretched huge and obscene around his own cock. Dean blinked, felt the breath seep from his chest, everything that they were doing – this whole night – the past weeks - all of it felt suddenly too much, too momentous, too fucking cataclysmic. 

He licked his lips – wanting – needing - to say something, “I, Sam," he stammered. 

Sam smiled at him, mouth shifting around his cock, long finger pressing down against Dean’s lips to silence him. Slowly Sam shook his head, damp tendrils of his hair flying. His eyes were shining, happy and full, and he gave Dean one last long look before he switched all of his attention back to his cock. 

It was barely seconds before Dean was coming, balls tightening up, everything taut and unbearable until the glorious snap of his orgasm, the overwhelming surge of pleasure, of Sam licking up the drops of come from the head of his cock, of Sam slurping it up like it was one of those disgusting protein shakes he loved so much. 

“Holy fuck, you swallow?” he gasped.

Sam laughed, a big, genuine, Sammy laugh, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Of course,” he said proudly. 

Dean shook his head in wonderment. After much begging and pleading on his part, Cora had swallowed his jizz twice, though she most definitely hadn’t enjoyed it. The first time, she’d ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, hacking like a cat with a fur ball and giving him some major stink-eye. The second time, they’d been fighting, he’d threatened to finish things with her and she’d panicked and offered to go down on him and swallow, and of course, being nineteen years old at the time, he’d agreed in a heart-beat. 

“No one ever did that for you before?” asked Sam.

“Cora did, twice.” 

“Cora, of course,” said Sam with a grimace. 

“She didn’t like it much.” 

Sam looked at him, then smirked, this wicked little twist of his mouth. “I like it.” 

Jesus, he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to know that about his little brother – which was completely ludicrous, given that the same little brother had just given him a freaking blow-job and swallowed his spunk. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” he muttered. 

Sam laughed out loud, and Dean felt his own mouth curl up into a smile. He could never resist Sam when he was in this kinda mood – warm and expansive and cocky – there was nothing better. For a brief moment, he could see the two of them thirty years into the future: sitting on the couch in front of the TV, plates of steamed chicken and vegetables on their laps because it was even more important now than ever for Dean to take care of his heart. He’d turn to Sam and flick a couple of carrots at him because even after nearly sixty fucking years of knowing him, Sam still refused to believe that Dean _hated_ carrots. He’d shoot Sam a teasing grin and see Sam’s answering exasperated eye-roll, and then bad hip or not, he’d be reaching over to punch Sam playfully in the arm, and then Sam would smirk at him and pull him into a kiss, and their dinners would be forgotten as they sank down into the couch cushions together to make out. 

He swallowed, flushing bright red and feeling embarrassed with himself for the ridiculous and sentimental turn his stupid brain seemed to have taken. It was obviously all Sam’s fault. He turned his head to see Sam lying on his side, eyes closed and breathing getting slow, the same way he’d always looked when he was about to fall sleep. He resisted the urge to lean over and brush the hair out of Sam’s eyes, telling himself that really – there was a freaking limit here – blowjob or no blowjob, he really wasn’t that gay. Instead, he plumped his pillow into a comfortable shape and sank down into the bed, feeling more relaxed than he had done in a really, really long while. 

 

**

 

Dean groaned out loud as soon as the hideously familiar _“Woah-oha-ahhh… caught in a bad romance…”_ intro started up, and he flicked his eyes away from the dance floor and towards his brother. Sam had moved his chair so he could sprawl against the wall, his big body in a come-hither slump, though the come-hither-ness was severely impaired by the presence of Simon, curled up on Sam’s lap asleep, his face pressed against the collar of Sam’s white dress shirt, fist clutched in the soft, silky material. Sam caught Dean’s eye and smiled, his eyes bright with alcohol and something that made Dean’s belly dip and roll. He felt his own mouth twist up into a grin, unable to help himself. 

He turned his head to look back at the nearly empty dance floor where his oldest son was wowing Jess’s wedding guests with his much-rehearsed dance routine to _Bad Romance_ , complete with the freaky, claw-handed move that always made him look like he was auditioning for a super-creepy, kiddy production of _Cats_. Most of the guests were sitting at various tables around the room like the one he and Sam and Simon were currently at, while various others were standing, ringing the dance floor and cheering Jonah on – which, come on, the kid really did not need the extra encouragement, his future career as a backing dancer for gay-friendly pop acts was definitely assured. His recent triumph in the school play just before the summer break seemed to have only fueled his appetite for performing in public and Dean could see many similar occasions to come in their family’s future. About half-way through the song Jonah spun across the floor towards Jess and grabbed her hand to pull her out onto the floor with him, her huge, fluffy wedding dress billowing out around them as the other guests clapped encouragement. No one could say that his kid didn’t know how to work a crowd. 

He closed his eyes and resisted the impulse to connect his forehead with the linen tablecloth. He could hear Sam chuckling from across the table, and flinched when he felt Sam’s shoeless foot slide up his calf, pushing up his dress pants. He raised his head to see the evil glint in Sam’s eyes, the sultry dip to his mouth. He swallowed, signed: _Stop it, not now,_ safe in the knowledge that they were the only two people present (apart from Jonah or Jess) who would understand. 

Sam grinned wickedly to himself, and careful not to dislodge Simon from his sleeping spot, answered: _I’ve been thinking about you all day. We have to leave soon._

Dean swallowed and nodded, ‘cause, Jesus, yeah, okay, he was… fuck, okay then. 

Just – he glanced back to the dance floor. Thank God the song seemed be fading out, the rest of the guests flooding back into place as David Bowie took over, though Jonah seemed loath to give up his spot as dance-partner-of-the-bride and all-round-focus-of-attention. He saw Jess turn her head and meet his eyes with a smile. She took hold of Jonah’s hand and led him off the floor and towards them. 

“Did you see me?” demanded Jonah. 

“Yep,” Dean answered, “you were awesome.” He reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair, while Jonah made a face and pushed his hand away. 

“Dad! Not the hair!” he hissed. 

Dean rolled his eyes again, and raised his hand. “Sorry, kiddo, my bad! But listen, you gotta promise, when you get to be a big and famous popstar, you’re not allowed to forget about me and Uncle Sammy and Jess, okay?” 

Jess laughed and threw an arm around Jonah’s shoulders, pulling him in as much as her enormous train would allow while Jonah squirmed and wriggled free, shooting death-glares all round. 

Dean got to his feet and leaned to place a kiss on Jess’s forehead. She still smelled just as he remembered, was still as beautiful as he remembered. With a wrench, he suddenly recalled their own wedding day; she’d had a much smaller train on that day, a much less lavish dress, a much less lavish reception. The whole thing had been done cheaply. This setting was far more her. 

“You look beautiful,” he told her. “Shame the groom’s nowhere near as hot as me.” She rolled her eyes and hit him playfully on the arm. “C’mon, you gotta agree with me!” he appealed. 

Before she had a chance to respond the music changed again, the intro to Bruce Springsteen’s _The River_ blaring through the speakers in a jarring change of tone. He did a double-take, turning to gape at her. “Seriously? Kinda inappropriate, don’t you think?” 

She smiled serenely. “You know how I feel about Bruce.” 

“Ohhhh, yeahhh.” 

She laughed awkwardly then shifted on her feet, sending him a look from under her eyelashes. “You wanna dance?” 

Dean hesitated, glancing quickly over his shoulder at Sam who was watching them closely, then back at her. “Uh, yeah, okay, c’mon then.” 

He led her out onto the floor, an overwhelming sense of deja-vu hitting him. He pushed the memories to the back of his head and slid his arms around her. He’d forgotten how tall she was. In her heels, they were nearly the same height, their eyes practically level, although these days he was pretty used to being the short partner. 

“I’m just hoping this song’s not gonna be a bad omen again,” he said. “Have you listened to the lyrics? Shit doesn’t end well. I always said we should’ve pulled it from our list.” 

“Hey, don’t hate on Bruce for our mistakes.” 

“Well, there was that one time you called out his name during sex.” 

She batted him playfully again and laughed, “Shut up. You know the only name I ever called out when we were having sex was yours, Dean.” 

“Oh yeah, I remember that too,” he answered, smile getting wicked. 

He could see the ripple of her throat as she swallowed and shifted her gaze away from his face, cheeks staining pink. He felt a sudden stab of discomfort, noticing that her new husband, Jeff, was no longer talking to his best-man, but watching the two of them intently from the sidelines. Jeff hadn’t wanted either him or Sam at the wedding. But after Jess had insisted on putting Jonah and Simon in the wedding party, there hadn’t been much choice but to invite the two of them. 

He glanced back to their table, to where Sam was talking to Jonah over the top of Simon’s sleepy head, Jonah nodding seriously at whatever Sam was saying to him, fingers playing with the pile of crumbs over his place setting. Dean swallowed again and brought his gaze back to Jess. 

“Seriously, though, this time, I hope it all works out, I hope you’re both happy,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with as much honesty as he could. It was true, he did want her to be happy; she deserved it. She deserved a lot better than she’d gotten with him. 

He realized now that he’d never truly loved Jess – not how she’d deserved. Cora, at least, had gotten that, understood that she’d never come first in his affections, and she’d been self-involved and hard-skinned enough to not care, to move on and look out for herself. And Reiko had had her career and a life back in London. She’d known, better than he did, what a temporary thing their marriage had been. But Jess had been different. Jess had been in love with him, she’d known him for years and wanted him for years, and although he’d been very fond of her and he’d lusted after her plenty, he hadn’t been in love with her. 

She said nothing for a second, then he saw her bite her lip, duck her head. “Thanks. That means a lot. And it’s, uh, it’s good that we can still be friends. You’re still special to me, you know? I think you’re always going to be special. And I really hope that you manage to find someone. I know there’s someone perfect out there for you.” 

He smiled weakly because – yeahhhh - maybe that someone was a helluva lot closer to home than she realized. His eyes drifted back towards their table. This time Sam was looking back at him, watching him with that same thoughtful, contemplative look on his face. Their eyes locked and he felt his heart rate immediately shift up a gear. 

“So, I guess I should wish you good luck. And tell you to enjoy your honeymoon,” he said with a smirk. 

She huffed out a breath and nodded, her mouth curling up into another smile. “I intend to.” 

They were silent for a moment, tension ratcheting up again, and he just wanted gone now, wanted to go back home, get the boys to bed, and fall asleep beside Sam. God, he wanted that. 

“Look, I think we’re gonna head off soon, Simon’s already out for the count.” 

She glanced back at the table. “Yeah, sure, no problem.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, her lips soft and dry against his skin. She pulled away, a faint blush staining her beautiful face, and smiled at him again. “Bye, Dean.” 

“Yeah, bye, Jess,” he muttered, and then he turned away, weaving through the dancers and back to Sam. 

Sam glanced up at him, looking concerned, “You okay, man?” 

“You know _How I Met Your Mother_ was right, Sammy. Having your ex at your wedding is weird.” 

 

**

 

They set off for Jeannie’s cabin in Colorado the day after Jess’s wedding. Dean spent the morning attempting to cram the trunk of the Impala with duffles of clothes, sleeping bags, pillows, toys, books, sports equipment, camping equipment, health food crap and whatever other shit Sam and the kids seemed to think necessary to cart along for a ten day trip. He reached up to slam the lid of the trunk shut, and cursed when once again, it refused to catch. 

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, coming out the house to watch him. 

“Why’d you have to pack so much shit, huh?” he demanded. He reached into the trunk and pulled out his own bag, a small, green duffle containing two pairs of jeans, one pair of shorts, swim trunks, underwear, three shirts, two t-shirts, shaving kit, one stick of deodorant and one pair of sneakers. He’d been thinking that he’d over-packed, but compared to the sheer volume of crap cluttering up the trunk, he really, really hadn’t. 

“Look, this is my bag – this is the size of my bag – why’d you need all this shit?” he waved a hand at the overflowing trunk. 

“I packed what we needed, Dean. You know: things like food and towels and bedding, clothes for the kids-” 

“We can buy food when we get there!” 

“It will be late by the time we get there, so, no, we can’t. Look, just," Sam broke off and sighed manfully. “I’ll do this; you go get the kids ready. And make sure you know the route, I printed out directions, they’re on the kitchen table.” 

“I don’t need directions!” 

The cabin had only two bedrooms, one with bunk beds, the other with a king. Last year, when they’d shared, he and Sam had fought every night, their eternal war for covers and space, Sam winning as he always did due to his unfair size advantage and Dean’s own inability to not give into his brother’s every whim. This year, it was going to be very different, and Dean’s heart rate quickened, stomach getting tight and nervous as he thought about it. They wouldn’t have to invent any excuses about nightmares and games to explain why Uncle Sammy was sleeping in bed with Dad again. And even better than that, the location of the cabin was secluded, there was no prospect of running into anyone they knew. Out here, they could be anybody they wanted to be. 

It was dark by the time they drew up outside the cabin, and when Dean checked the driver’s mirror, he noticed that Simon was sound asleep, head on a pillow lying across Jonah’s lap. 

_Are we there_? Jonah asked, blinking sleepily and signing instinctively, like he wasn’t yet awake enough for the power of speech. 

Dean nodded at him, _Yes._

Jonah blinked, yawned hugely and reached to gather up his backpack and stumble out the door into the night. Dean pulled the keys to the cabin out his pocket and steered Jonah, one hand on his shoulder, up the dirt path towards the cabin door. He glanced over his shoulder as he set the key in the lock and saw Sam reaching inside the car to pull a still-asleep Simon into his arms. The lock was stiff, and even after he’d gotten the key to turn, the door refused to give. He set his shoulder against it and shoved like he was making a football tackle. 

“Are we locked out?” hissed Jonah, his big eyes wide and anxious in the starlight. There were no outdoor lights here, just a vast expanse of sky above them, the moon paltry and new hanging just over the thick masses of trees scaling up the mountains and hills that dipped and rose around them. 

“No, of course not, buddy. It’s just kind of stiff, a little warped with the rain.” 

Sam joined them, Simon still in his arms. “You need some help?” 

Dean glanced up at him and nodded. Sam shifted Simon’s weight onto his other arm and placed his own massive shoulder against the door, their faces inches apart as Dean twisted the handle and together they gave the wood a resounding shove. The door finally gave with a groaning, slippery sound and they staggered inside. Dean only regaining his balance at the last moment with Sam’s hand on his sleeve. 

“Go help get the car unpacked,” Sam told Jonah as soon as they were inside. “And when you’re done, it’s bed time.” He laid Simon carefully on the couch in the living area. Dean walked past him towards the two bedrooms at the back of the cabin, hearing Jonah whine loudly, “But, I’m on vacation!”

The first door was the bedroom the boys had used last year. It had bunk beds, the wood hewn from the same trees that had built the rest of the cabin which gave them a curious organic look, as if they were emerging from the wooden walls. They reminded Dean of the sort of beds Santa’s little elf helpers might sleep in if there were such a thing, and he could remember remarking on that last year to both kids. Simon had been wildly excited, and Jonah singularly unimpressed. 

He snapped on the light switch, cheering under his breath when a pathetic pool of light appeared, not making much difference in the dark-wood room. He made up the beds with the bedding Sam brought in from the car, hearing Sam and Jonah’s excitable chattering drifting in from the kitchen. Back in the living area, Simon was still crashed out on the couch, covered in Sam’s enormous coat (and yes, only Sam would bring a fucking coat with him on vacation in July, Christ he really was prepared for everything). 

“His pajamas are laid out in the bathroom!” Sam called out to him, raising his head from the stove where he and Jonah were boiling milk, the two of them looking like co-conspirators. 

Dean pulled Simon into his arms and carried him to the bedroom, leaving him carefully sprawled out over the lower bunk as he went to retrieve his pajamas from the bathroom. For a log vacation cabin, the bathroom was pretty impressive. There was no bath, but the shower stall was big. Definitely big enough for two grown men to shower together, he noted idly. The realization of what that actually meant making him blush furiously, his cock starting to take an interest as he imagined crowding into there with Sam, Sam’s big body pressed up against his own, slippery and slick and wet… He swallowed and pushed the thought away, retrieving Simon’s pajamas which Sam had left folded on the sink, along with his Power Rangers toothbrush and matching facecloth. 

He undressed Simon quickly, stripping him out of his hoodie and t-shirt and jeans with deft fingers. He was pretty skilled at this. Simon only stirred once, blinking and looking at him blearily through his smudged glasses; on recognizing his father’s face, he immediately shut his eyes again, falling back asleep. 

Back in the living area, Jonah spun around on his toes to greet him with a dazzling smile. “We’re having cocoa, Dad! I made you some. Do you want some marshmallows in it? I put marshmallows in mine.” 

“We have marshmallows?” 

“Of course we have marshmallows. How else are we gonna make s’mores?” said Sam. 

Dean grinned brilliantly at the news and came forward to watch Jonah dunk four enormous marshmallows into his cup of cocoa, prodding at them with a teaspoon, the gooey, pink mess sticking to the edges of the mug. Dean wasn’t sure how he was supposed to drink it and it did look pretty disgusting, but whatever, they were on vacation. Tomorrow there would be s’mores, a shower big enough to share with Sam, not to mention the king-size bed. Jonah was holding out his drink to him with another dazzling smile, so he took it, beaming his thanks at his son. 

 

**

 

The cabin wasn’t as secluded as Dean had hoped. There were four other similar vacation cabins nearby, all owned and rented out by the same company Jeannie had gotten hers from, and to Jonah’s relief, two of them by families with young children. Jonah being Jonah, he immediately decided he was going to meet both sets of kids and assess their worthiness for the position of temporary vacation friend. He soon decided that the two boys of his own age were not worthy, and in the end deigned to allow two girls, both older than him, to hang out with him. 

On their third night, Dean came back from a run to find Sam deep in conversation and a bottle of wine with the parents of the two girls (Mark and Kate) and all four kids playing Monopoly at the kitchen table. 

After toweling off indoors, he went out onto the porch to join Sam and his new friends. 

“So, um, I hope you don’t mind me asking but how long have you guys been together?” the woman, Kate, asked after a lull in the conversation. 

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. His brother looked uncomfortable, licking his lips as if he was unsure how to respond. 

“A long time,” Dean answered, “feels like most of our lives, huh, Sammy?” 

Sam shot him a warning look, but he didn’t look annoyed by the answer, on the contrary, he looked pleasantly surprised. “Yeah. Definitely feels like that.”

“So, you adopted your children?” Kate continued with obvious interest, “I understand in certain parts of the country, it’s quite easy to do that nowadays. I just didn’t realize Kansas was so liberal.” 

“No, no,” Dean said hesitantly, “I used to be married to a woman – two of them in fact – before Sam. But Sam and I – we go way back. He’s been carrying a torch for me for years, though, took me long enough to figure it out.” He turned a smirking look on Sam who was trying to keep a straight face, this little hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and squeezed Sam’s arm, letting his hand linger, Sam’s bare skin warm and soft under his fingertips. 

 

**

 

Sam was already sitting up in bed, book on his knees and Dean’s two pillows behind his back when Dean came into the room to go to bed. Sam carefully marked his page in his book (with a bookmark, Sammy hated anyone turning down the page corners of his precious books), placed it on the nightstand and turned to watch him get undressed. It was still so strange but also, weirdly titillating to feel Sam’s blatantly appreciative gaze all over him as he shucked his jeans down and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He pushed the covers back (completely unnecessary when you were sleeping with Sam, guy put out more heat than a goddamn furnace) and slipped into bed, feeling Sam’s arms slide around him from behind and pull him in close.

“Wanna make out?” Sam whispered in a voice that was low and husky and really shouldn’t send that kind of a thrill down Dean’s spine and straight to his cock, except it totally was, making him hot and wanting with just one nuzzle of Sam’s lips against the nape of his neck. It didn’t help that Sam seemed to have figured out all his sweet spots in record time, (he was such a freaking overachiever). Figured them out and then figured out some others that Dean hadn’t even been aware he had. 

“If you want to,” he answered, trying vainly to sound nonchalant and cool. Sam slurped a kiss over his neck, just pulling away enough to blow lightly over the slick. And, come on, that was a totally cheesy move, except his stupid cock was really not getting the memo and was starting to tent his boxers in a way that was kinda shameful. 

He rolled over, raised his hand to cup his brother’s jaw, and leaned down to press an eager kiss to his mouth. It was pointless trying to be cool and nonchalant when he was with Sam, his body always betrayed him. Besides, Sam always wore him down until he got his own way, just like he’d done his entire life. 

It wasn’t long before they were kissing in earnest, passionately making out with the same kind of heated desperation Dean could remember from horny, teenage make-out sessions with Cora in the back of the Impala. It was amazing how similar this felt and yet how different. Sam’s body was about as different to Cora’s as it was possible to get, and yet the sensation of Sam’s big ,hard body all around him, seeming to be on top of him and underneath him at the same time was driving him crazy, like he was that horny nineteen year old kid all over again.

There had to be some part of him that had always wanted this, he thought as Sam shifted his hips, lining them up so their erections were grazing each other, a part of him that had always secretly wanted to be dominated and taken over like this. But he was unable to pursue this train of thought further, the sensation of Sam’s big cock pressing against his own pushing all thoughts momentarily from his brain until all he could think about was how fucking good that felt, and Jesus Christ, Sam was good at this, and was he seriously about to cream his boxers after a bit of goddamn frottage? 

“We should– “ he tried to say, but Sam cut him off, growling, _“Don’t talk!”_ before he pushed his tongue forcefully back into Dean’s mouth. 

Sam rolled them over so he was on top – man, his little brother had some serious control issues - and started to rock his hips, grinding his cock against Dean’s in a way that was totally fucking out of this world. He was 31 years old for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t be feeling like this, this aroused and desperate and fucking begging for it. But this was Sam, he was having sex with Sam, his little brother, and he knew it was wrong, he _knew_ that. But right this moment, he really and truly didn’t care, and maybe, perhaps… somewhere in that twisted, little mind of his he was getting off on it – on the idea of it – fucking around with his little brother - surrendering control so completely to his baby brother. 

And man, Sam was definitely in control here: increasing his pace until their bodies were practically sliding against each other, slick with sweat, Dean’s boxers dangling off one ankle in a way that would be comical if he were capable of even thinking about anything ever again except how fucking close he was and how fucking amazing Sam felt, bearing him down into the bed, covering every inch of his body, loving him and desiring him as no one had ever done before. _My Sam, this is me and Sam, my Sammy_ , Dean thought, feeling vaguely hysterical, his head and brain pounding as the springs quaked and the headboard smashed against the wooden wall. His eyes met Sam’s and he saw everything he was feeling reflected in his brother’s eyes – the love and ownership and belonging - his own orgasm spilling out in the sweaty mess of their bodies as Sam gasped out his name. 

Sam rolled off him and exhaled like he’d just finished a mile long sprint. Dean turned his head to watch him, trying to regain his breath, his heart pumping like it was plugged in. 

“Holy fuck,” he breathed out. “That was – fuck, dude, fuck.”

Sam laughed shakily, and rolled to prop himself up on one elbow. There was a mess of jizz and sweat on his belly, and Dean stared down at it in fascination. Sam followed his gaze and reached out to trace a finger through the mess, eyes not leaving Dean’s face. He put his finger to his mouth and sucked lewdly, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Mmm, salty,” he murmured. 

Dean snorted and shook his head while Sam gave him a brilliant grin. He still hadn’t gotten his head around how at home Sam was with all this shit. He’d known that Sam was gay for years, but seeing the reality of it: Sam massaging his balls, sucking his cock, swallowing his jizz, still had the power to shock him. 

Since that first blowjob, Sam had repeated the favor a half dozen times, but he’d never asked for Dean to do it to him, happy for Dean to just jerk him off. He knew that at some point that would have to change. Sam was bound to want some real quid pro quo, but the problem was that Dean really wasn’t sure if he was ready. There was something so final, so _gay_ about sucking a guy’s cock, picturing himself with a dick shoved down his throat just felt – God - totally wrong, like he was somehow belittling himself or turning into something that Dean Winchester just wasn’t. He knew that thinking like that kinda put him in a bad light, but he couldn’t help it. He’d always thought of himself as being just one way, and he’d been figuring out these past few weeks that his own idea of himself was complete bullshit because yes, he was turned on by guys (or at least one guy), and more importantly, he was the sort of morally bankrupt individual who was turned on by his kid brother, and who was prepared to act on those desires. 

But it was definitely too late now. He was in this for keeps, his body wanted Sam, his brain wanted Sam, his heart wanted Sam. More importantly than that, he wanted Sam to be happy, and for some reason, Sam seemed to think he was the one – the only one – who could make him happy, so he could do this. The way he felt when they were together, when Sam was touching him, the way his chest ached when he saw that amazing, blissful look on Sam’s face, how warm he felt inside when he heard Sam groan out his name was worth any amount of moral soul-searching. Being with Sam felt so good, so easy. It felt – fuck – it felt _right_ , like this was how they were always supposed to be. 

He glanced up, seeing Sam watching him, that line between his eyebrows. 

“What?”

Sam shrugged, “I never realized before what a brooder you are.” 

He bristled, protesting, “What? No, I’m not!” 

“Yeah, you are. You’re brooding right now. I can see it, Dean. You’re freaking out.” 

“About what?”

“Sex,” Sam said simply. 

Shit. Goddamn Sam and his freaky perceptiveness. Alright, so maybe there was a lot of stuff, not just the blowjobs, but other stuff, everything that was labeled “ass-stuff” in his head that _did_ freak him out when he thought about it. Sure, they’d been taking it slow and all that, but Sam was gonna want to get more adventurous at some point. Sam was gonna want to fuck him, it was what he used to do with guys. 

Sam smiled at him, fond and slow. He swung his legs off the bed and bent to retrieve his t-shirt, moving to loom over Dean and wipe up the mess, eyes locked on what he was doing. He tossed the t-shirt aside when he was done, and moved so he was on his side again, propped up on one elbow, other hand resting warm and huge over the place where Dean’s heart was hammering fast. 

“You don’t have to freak out,” Sam reassured him. “I can get why you’re worried about it. And for the record, Dean, if you never feel ready to fuck me or to let me fuck you, then I will be okay with that.” 

Dean turned his head to meet his brother’s gaze, surprised. “Seriously? You’d be happy to never have butt-sex with me?” 

Sam’s lip twitched at the word, but he nodded, looking serious again. “Yeah. If you don’t want to ever do it, then we don’t do it. It’s not the end of the world. You know, there are plenty of gay men who have anal sex maybe once or twice in their entire life times, or who don’t ever do it. If you’re not careful and if you don’t do it properly, then you can really do some damage.” 

Dean shuddered, “Yeah, I’ve seen the prolapse pictures.” 

“And don’t forget HIV or hemorrhoids or anal incontinence.” 

“Anal incontinence? Jesus. You’re really not selling this to me. Why’d you ever want to do it?” 

“’Cause when you do it right, it’s fucking incredible.” Sam grinned to himself as if he was picturing it in his head. Probably with David, Dean thought peevishly. Sam and David had probably done it all the time because they’d loved each other _sooo_ much and because David had probably had a magic cock and an amazing asshole – ha, amazing asshole – he bit down on the urge to snort and pushed the thoughts from his head, that usual mix of irritation and guilt making him itchy and bitter. God, it was pretty pathetic that even now he couldn’t stop resenting David, even after the poor, dumb shit had been dead for years. 

Whatever, he’d never claimed to be a good person. He knew he wasn’t a good person, and as far as Sammy went, he could admit he’d always been intense, overprotective... possessive? Unhealthy for sure. 

“You must’ve tried it?” Sam’s question yanked him out of his thoughts. “With Cora? You guys did everything, right?” Sam’s tone had gotten catty, and Dean realized with a pleasing jolt of vindication that Sam was getting catty and resentful over him and Cora. Sam was still totally jealous, even now. Awesome. 

“Yeah, me and Cora tried it.” Truthfully, the experience had been disappointing. He’d always imagined anal sex to be this awesome super-hot-and-dirty act, at least that was how it looked in porn. But in real life, even with Cora, who’d had a fucking fabulous ass, it was not what he’d expected. The reality had been a lot more painful and, uh, _real_ than porn had led him to believe. He was pretty open-minded and usually game for most stuff as far as sex was concerned, but he definitely drew the line at scat.

“It was kinda gross,” he said finally. 

Sam laughed, “Yeah, I guess it can be, without adequate preparation.” He smirked and leaned down to kiss him, soft and slow, pulling away to run a finger tenderly over Dean’s bottom lip. “But I was completely serious when I said we don’t ever have to try it. If you don’t want to do anything, then you say so. I just want you to be happy, Dean.” 

He swallowed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. “I am, man, I am happy.” 

_I love you_ , he thought. He should say it now; Sam would love it if he said it out loud. But Sam was already leaning in to kiss him again, and as he arched up, body and mouth meeting Sam’s, he thought that it really wasn’t necessary to say the words aloud.


	8. Chapter 8

_I know I’ll never lose affection; for people and things that went before,  
I know I’ll often stop and think about them; in my life, I love you more_  
In My Life - The Beatles

 

They went for a long “nature walk” the next day through the woods. According to Sam, there were a lot of trees, flowers and insects which the boys should view and note down and maybe even take pictures of, because with Sam, activities should always have an educational slant. Unfortunately, there was no time to appreciate the wonders of nature as they got caught in a horrendous storm after half a mile, the temperature dropping about ten degrees in the space of five minutes, and as none of them were wearing anything more than shorts and t-shirts, they got more drenched than cheerleaders washing cars for pep week. Simon started to cry as the rain pelted down while Jonah stared forlornly through the massed trees, looking like a street urchin from _Oliver!_ a movie Dean was way too familiar with, thanks to Jonah’s musical theatre obsession. 

Sam gathered Simon up into his arms, cradling him against his chest, Simon’s small legs wrapped around his waist and sad little face pressed into the crook of his neck. Dean caught hold of Jonah’s hand, and together the four of them headed back the way they’d come, through the thick wet trees, and out into the open, trailing and falling and stumbling through the churned up mud around the driveway like they were running through a freaking mud bath. 

In the end, they all crowded into the big shower stall together. It was nothing like Dean’s fantasies on that first night, when he’d imagined showering with Sam. Seeing Sam’s hair turn black, his body shine and glisten, his cock grow big and fat and red as Dean ran his hands over every inch of his body. This scenario was about as different from that fantasy as it was possible to be. Jonah was shivering theatrically as Dean finally climbed in after him, teeth chattering and face upturned plaintively towards the falling hot water. Sam dumped Simon, equally naked and shivering, under the other faucet and quickly stripped off his own soaked clothes, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind him and exhaling heavily as he joined them. 

Jonah and Simon soon cheered up, excited by the novelty and adventure of sharing a shower with their parents. Hell, by the novelty of a shower that actually worked and gave out good strong hot water. Dean shook the water out of his eyes and glanced down at Simon. Simon seemed to be staring at his father’s dick with open fascination, and it occurred to Dean that although Simon had seen both him and Sam naked plenty of times before, (there was no shyness in the Winchester household), he had never seen both him and Sam quite so upfront and personal at the same time in such an intimate space. Simon’s little face was wide-eyed as he looked from Dean’s to Sam’s and then down at his own small boyish prick, immediately turning back to stare at Sam’s junk with mesmerized fascination. Dean suppressed a snigger, instead catching Sam’s eyes over the boys’ heads and jerking his head towards where Simon was staring. Sam’s eyebrow quirked up and he smirked back at Dean in amusement. 

There wasn’t much room in the shower stall for two kids, one grown man and one Sasquatch, so Dean finished up quickly, leaving Sam to wash and clean the kids to his own standards and then take his usual hour on his own hair and beauty regime. Dean pulled on a robe and padded into the kitchen to make grilled cheese sandwiches. He stood over the stove, staring out the window into the tumultuous rain. They wouldn’t be able to go outside again today and that was for damn sure, and with the shitty TV reception, he wasn’t quite sure what they were going to do with the rest of the day, though the terrifying prospect of Monopoly was definitely looming. 

He swore as the pan started to smoke, grilled cheese burning at the edges. He flipped the sandwich over quickly and pressed down with the spatula, hearing the satisfying sizzle and smelling the fantastic greasy aroma of melting cheese. It would be nothing less than a tragedy if these sandwiches ended up burnt. They only had a finite amount of forbidden white bread and even less forbidden American cheese in the fridge, and there was no way Sam would let him buy any more. No, this was going to be his only grilled-cheese sandwich for a long while, so he was damn well going to enjoy it. 

He flipped the finished sandwich onto a plate and dropped the next one into the pan, his mind starting to wonder again. If he was going to be honest with himself, then he really didn’t want this vacation to be over, not just because _duh, vacation_ but because he really didn’t want to go home. He was so freaking tired of their life in Kansas, of his crappy job with its crappy pay and non-existent prospects, of every fucker in town knowing who he was and how his mother had died and how his father had been a total nutbag. 

So, maybe they should do something about it? Hell, maybe they should pull up their roots and move away? Why the fuck not? What was stopping them from going somewhere where nobody knew them, where nobody knew about Mom or Dad, or that he and Sam were brothers? The thought was tantalizing, making the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and his insides feel warm as he imagined the four of them getting into the car and just driving, getting away from everything, from all the shit that had dogged him for years. Man, that would be so good. Sure, it would be hard to leave Bobby and Jeannie and Jess behind, but just the thought of the freedom they could have, the anonymity. Maybe he could join another police force, finally make detective, away from the specter of Mom’s murder and the sheriff and the entire freaking town’s preconceptions about his own mental state. 

Of course, in reality, there would be a lot to think about if they ever did move: selling their place and buying a new one, getting new jobs, finding schools for both Jonah and Simon, the support network that they’d need for Simon. But Sam would totally love getting into that; writing lists and researching shit were two of his favorite pastimes, the big freak. 

To his dismay, they did end up playing Monopoly all afternoon. It didn’t help that Jonah was obsessed with the game and that Sam loved all board and strategy games to a degree that was disturbing. Jonah had inherited this passion of Sam’s along with Sammy’s freakishly competitive streak, cheering out loud every time one of them (usually Dean) landed on one of his properties and forked over a big wedge of cash. After about an hour, Simon got bored of his usual role of banker and wandered off to the couch to read _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_. Dean eyed him enviously, wishing he could creep away and find something else to do, seriously, anything would be preferable to this interminable game. Instead, he started to pilfer some money from the now unguarded bank, adding it surreptitiously to his dwindling stash. 

“Dad! I saw you take that $50!” Jonah cried aloud, voice raised in moral outrage. “Stop cheating!”

Sam pursed his lips, “Dean."

“Sam,” he mimicked. 

Jonah picked up the little metal racecar that was Dean’s token (of course) and placed it on the JAIL square, declaring, “There! You should stay in jail for at least three goes. And maybe he should give up some of his properties, don’t you think, Uncle Sammy?” He widened his eyes hopefully at Sam, and Dean resisted the urge to snort, he knew his son had his eye on the Pennsylvania Railroad card he held. He only needed that one to own all four railroads; the kid was a damn shark. 

“No, it’s okay,” said Sam, directing Dean an indulgent look, “he’s already losing enough.” 

Dean sighed and glared out the window at the still falling rain. He was doomed. 

 

**

 

The boys spent the next day with their new friends. Apparently, the girls had mentioned a trip to the zoo, and after much to-and-fro, Dean had reluctantly given into Jonah’s pleading puppy-dog eyes, on the condition that he made sure to interpret everything Simon said to Mark or Kate, as neither of them understood any ASL. 

He felt guilty for putting that responsibility onto Jonah. He knew firsthand what it was like to have the responsibility for your kid brother dumped on you at an early age, but Jonah had seemed proud and had promised faithfully to look after Simon. Dean knew he didn’t really have anything to worry about. Jonah and Simon fought and squabbled like any other brothers, but deep down, Jonah was fiercely protective of Simon, and Simon adored Jonah. Besides, the two girls seemed to be great kids and Mark and Kate were the kind of sincere, responsible, grown-up sort of parents that he’d always wanted to be, so his boys were in safe hands. 

He and Sam went running after they’d waved goodbye to Mark and Kate’s enormous SUV. Sam was normally a morning runner, leaving the house at ridiculous o’clock, before the sun had even risen in the winter. Dean was a lot less dedicated, and certainly not dedicated enough to haul his ass out of bed when Sam did. He preferred to run at night, shaking off the shittiness of the day as he pounded the dark streets, coming home to a hot shower and his bed. 

“You wanna race?” Sam asked, shooting him a challenging look from over his shoulder. 

“Yeah. S’long as you’re prepared to lose,” he shot back. 

Sam laughed out loud in genuine amusement, and tossed Dean one of those superior eyebrow looks of his. “See in you in five!” he called out, speeding up and disappearing into the thickening trees ahead. 

Dean swore under his breath and set off after him, increasing his own pace to a sprint, as he tried to keep up. It wasn’t fair. Sam was four inches taller than him which translated to four inches extra in leg length and way longer strides; he was going to get his ass handed to him and that was for damn sure. He increased his speed even more, hearing his breath come fast and his heart hammering crazily against his ribs, blood thumping in his head as his feet pounded against the soft ground. 

He couldn’t see Sam now. The track was winding, twisting and turning through the thick, dense trees, reminding him of that awesome beginning scene of _Silence of the Lambs_. He came sprinting into a clearing and he jerked to a halt, bending at the waist to catch his breath. Shit, he hadn’t run that fast or that far in a long, long time; 30-yard touchline dashes were more what he was used to. He raised his head, peering through the thickets of trees encircling him. Where the fuck had Sam got to? He couldn’t be that far ahead.

“Dean!” 

He jumped as someone – Sam - grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a crushing embrace, hot mouth pressing down against the back of his neck, thick, sinewy arms winding around his middle, holding him tight. He froze, heart-rate speeding up again as he felt his brother’s tongue paint a stripe over the nub of his spine, fluttering kisses along his neck and shoulders until his teeth sank into the meat of his shoulder, sucking greedily. 

Dean groaned and ground his ass back against Sam’s hard, hot body. He could feel his brother’s thickening cock pressed up against the curve of his ass and he shivered, the adrenalin from the run still pumping crazily in his veins, the blood still thumping against his skull. He twisted in Sam’s embrace and reached up with both hands to yank Sam’s head down into a long, passionate kiss. Sam moaned out something that sounded like Dean’s name and pulled him in closer, one hand on his ass and the other on the back of his neck. Stumbling and grinding against each other, they sank down into the mud, their mouths not leaving each other for a millisecond. 

Sam pulled away, panting for breath, his eyes dark and hazy as they met Dean’s. “Are we, are we doing this – here? What if people–“ 

“ _I don’t fuckin’ care_ ,” Dean growled, and pulled him back into a kiss. 

Their legs and feet were getting caked in mud, the ground still so soft and squelchy from the rain yesterday. Sam cradled the back of his head with one hand and pushed him down to the ground, following up immediately with more bitten-off, snarling kisses. Their legs were entangled, and Sam’s other hand was worming into Dean’s shorts, grabbing for his eager, desperate cock and wrapping tightly around it. Dean groaned loudly and arched up, the mud giving way under his feet as he tried for purchase, needing, God, so desperately needing. Sam breathed out his name and jerked his fist up and down Dean’s cock, not pausing as his mouth devoured Dean’s. 

“Sam, Sam,” he murmured, “let me – do you – together – we gotta – together-”

Sam moaned something incoherent and snatched up Dean’s hand, pressing it against the place where his own cock was tenting the fabric of his shorts. Taking it as a yes, Dean slid his fingers under the waistband, finding and giving Sam’s cock a hard squeeze. Sam shuddered, his eyelashes fluttering against the hollows of his cheek, his mouth spreading into a serene, blissful smile as his lips shaped Dean’s name. Dean reached up, cradled Sam’s skull and pulled him down into another kiss, as he started to jack Sam’s cock in earnest. 

There were only the sounds of their tight, panted breathing, the slick-slock noises as they jerked each other off, the sloppy, smacking sound of their needy kisses. Dean arched up and in one smooth move, rolled them over until Sam was the one underneath, the one half-sinking into the churned up leaves and mud. He could feel himself getting closer, and he could tell from the half-pained, half-incredulous look on Sam’s face that he was too. 

“Wait, Sammy, hold on, wait for me,” he whispered urgently. Sam’s eyelashes fluttered, his feverish, glittering gaze meeting Dean’s as he nodded.

They got there together, the two of them crying out within a second of each other, tears springing to Sam’s eyes as he clutched helplessly at the sleeve of Dean’s t-shirt, jerking his fist over the head of Dean’s cock as Dean followed him over the precipice, the two of them hurtling down a slope, tangled up together and never willing to let go. 

He collapsed on top of Sam when it was all over, panting for breath, and slowly becoming aware of the spooge in his shorts and that the rest of his body was caked in thick, squelchy mud. 

They made a ridiculous sight as they walked back towards the cabin. Both of them looking as if they’d just taken part in a mud wrestling competition, and walking as if they’d just come in their pants, which of course, they totally had. Their clothes were a dead loss, t-shirts soppy and gray with mud, shorts spattered with jizz stains, leaves stuck to their bare legs and in their hair. 

They were just leaving the edge of the forest, taking the trail back towards the cabin when they ran into Lydia and George, a middle-aged couple staying at a cabin down the road from theirs. They were dressed in serious hiking gear: water-proof pants, those weird-ass walking sticks that looked like ski equipment and sturdy hiking boots. For a moment, all four stared at each other in mute disbelief. Lydia and George doing a long, slow double-take as they took in every detail of their disheveled, flushed, post-coital appearances, not to mention the unmistakable, white stains on their shorts. 

“Hello,” said Sam politely. 

Dean bit his lip, valiantly resisting the urge to laugh out loud. It really was too fucking ridiculous. Lydia was blushing purple as if she’d figured out exactly what they were doing in the forest to get into that state, and George was just staring at a point into the distance, trying to pretend that the whole scene wasn’t actually happening. 

“We were just – we went for a run,” Sam continued. Dean had to give his brother serious credit for even bothering. “Unfortunately, we, uh, slipped, fell over. It’s very muddy,” he added pointlessly. 

“That’s, um, yes, with the rain yesterday,” said Lydia in a faint, strangled voice. 

“Yeah,” laughed Sam weakly, directing a _please help me_ look at Dean. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Well, I guess we should be going, gotta get cleaned up. Catch you later!” 

“Shit!” groaned Sam when they were out of earshot, “You think they realized?"

“Yup. Most definitely.” 

“Shit.” 

“Don’t worry about it; we’re probably just fulfilling their expectations as to how homosexuals behave. Totally depraved.” 

Sam glared at him. “That’s not funny, Dean. Not all gay couples behave like – like–“

“Like us? God, I hope not. C’mon, Sammy, you gotta see the funny side. We just gave them the thrill of their lives!” 

They climbed into the shower together when they got back, finally getting to fulfill Dean’s fantasy. Though the experience was somewhat ruined by having to unclog the drain every couple of minutes when it got too full of mud and leaves. Finally, after most of the mud had washed away, Sam sank to his knees and took Dean’s cock into his mouth, giving him his second mind-blowing orgasm of the day. He followed Sam into the bedroom, feeling sated and content, and got onto the bed with him, both of them still in their towels, leaving their warm, pink bodies to slowly dry off.

Dean closed his eyes and snuggled down into his pillow. Sam was half-sprawled over him, his long, clever fingers tracing over the dips and lines of Dean’s abs and stomach, playing with his belly button, and brushing over the soft trail of hair that led down to his crotch. He was getting used to having Sam’s hands all over him when they were in private. Sam seemed to want to touch him all the time. The endless attention was sometimes too much to handle, but on other occasions, like now, it was just kinda nice, comforting. 

“Hey, so I’ve been thinking,” he said. 

Sam made a sleepy, content sort of a noise that was obviously his cue to continue. 

He took a breath and decided, fuck it, spit it out already. “I think we should move.” 

Sam raised his head, a puzzled line between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” 

“Move,” he answered. “You know, like, leave Corn, leave Kansas. Go live somewhere else completely different.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Totally.” 

Sam licked his lips and shifted his position until he was sitting up. Dean watched him rearrange his pillows, anxiety fluttering in his belly. He’d expected Sam to be as excited as he was by the prospect of leaving Kansas, going away somewhere completely different and starting a new life. But if Sam wasn’t genuinely into the idea then that was it - he’d have to forget about it; he could never force Sam to do anything he wasn’t one hundred percent behind.

“So, what do you think?” he prompted. 

“There’d be a lot to think about,” Sam answered hesitantly. “Moving to a different state isn’t easy. And we’d have to sell the house.”

Of course, Sam would always consider the practical implications first, that was just his way. Dean knew that, he counted on that, on Sam being the one who could deal with all that shit. 

“Yeah, yeah, course, but, forget about that for a minute. I want to know how you feel about it, about moving somewhere else. About starting a life somewhere completely different?” 

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched and the weight immediately lifted from Dean’s chest. The nervous, prickly feeling ebbing away as Sam smiled at him. “I’d feel very happy about that.” 

“Oh, good. I was worried you might not be so-” 

“Are you kidding? Dean, I’ve wanted to move away for years, you know that!” 

“Oh, right, yeah, sure. California. I guess I kinda ruined that dream for you, didn’t I?” 

Sam frowned, confused. “What? No you didn’t. I was the one who decided not to go.” 

“But you stayed ‘cause of me.” Sam turned his head away again, which was answer enough. Dean bit his lip, said quietly, “I used to think about California too, you know.” 

“What?” Sam raised his eyes to him again, and blinked. 

“Yeah. Back before shit got serious with Reiko, just after Dad died, when Jonah was a baby. I thought about us just up and leaving, the three of us I mean, you and me and Jonah. I thought about you going to Stanford, and me going with you and the three of us getting this apartment off campus somewhere. I could get a job, maybe join the police or work in a garage, whatever, and you could go to school, and help me raise Jonah, and… Fuck, I don’t know, man, it was just a pipe dream. I just – I wanted to get away back then, after Dad died. I wanted to get away from that place.” 

Sam looked at him for a long moment, his eyes wide and solemn. “For what it’s worth, I would’ve said yes. I would’ve gone with you in a heartbeat.” 

He thought back to those days he hadn’t thought about in years. About how that desire that had gripped him to just get away from his life, to take Jonah and follow Sam and disappear. To not be Dean Winchester anymore, with his dead Dad and his murdered Mom and his crappy little job as a small-town cop. 

Christ, nothing ever really did change. 

“But, Dean, look at it this way. If we’d left back then, you wouldn’t’ve married Reiko and we wouldn’t have Simon. So, maybe some things really do work out for the best.” Sam nudged him with one big, meaty shoulder, and Dean felt his mouth curl up into a rueful smile. Hell, Sammy did have a point (as always) – however much of an enormous fuck-up his relationships with both Cora and Reiko had been, they were worth every awkward, bitter moment, and more, when he thought about his boys. 

“But we can go now. Nothing to stop us now. Soon as we get back. I’m gonna start looking into it. Figuring out what we gotta do,” Sam continued. 

“Okay,” he nodded, “okay, yes, awesome.” It was exactly what he’d been counting on. Sam doing the heavy-lifting as he always did, figuring things out and arranging their lives and keeping them together, keeping him together, keeping him going. 

“And you know, man, if we went some place where people didn’t know us from Adam, they wouldn’t have to know we were brothers.” 

Dean blushed, he ducked his head. “Yeah, yeah, I, uh, I was thinking about that.” 

“Yeah?” 

“But, Sammy, we gotta–“ he hesitated, blew out a long breath, “the kids." 

The happy expression on Sam’s face immediately faded; he pressed his lips together, nodded, “Yeah, of course.” 

Dean gulped, that uneasy queasy tension taking hold of his insides again. He knew he’d been deliberately avoiding thinking about Simon and Jonah ever since he and Sam had started this – God – this relationship, telling himself that they had time. Both boys were still young and innocent, there would be plenty of time to tell them later when they were more grown up, when they could understand better. 

But he knew he was just kidding himself. Jonah was already a lot more mature than he liked to accept. Thanks to Sam, the boy knew all about the facts of life, about heterosexual and homosexual sex, and he’d be ten next year. Dean could remember himself at ten, feeling itchy and hot and confused when he looked at girls, realizing that his dick was not just for pissing. He’d had to figure it all out on his lonesome, ‘cause it wasn’t like Dad had been any use. He was determined that Jonah wasn’t going to be as alone as he’d been. Jonah would have them, but that meant that they had to be straight with him, starting with the truth about their own relationship. 

“I,” he hesitated, licked his lips and sighed painfully. “Fuck, man, I can’t – I can’t think about this. It’s just. We’re gonna scar them for life. They’ll end up hating us. Both of them will.”

Sam sighed in turn, “Maybe. But all teenagers hate their parents at some point in their lives, for loads of reasons, a lot of them total bullshit. But we should give them the benefit of the doubt. Jonah and Simon love you more than anything, Dean; you’re the only person who’s always been there for them. So, we just gotta hope that that’s enough, that they’ll understand. After all, I don’t know – things haven’t really changed all that much, as far as they’re concerned. I think it would be far harder for them to accept either one of us leaving or getting involved with another person. I think that would be far more detrimental to their wellbeing than the idea that we’re together. This way they know they’re always going to get the stability of two parents.” 

“Two parents that are related to each other,” Dean interjected darkly. 

“Two parents that love each other,” insisted Sam. “That love each other and love both children more than anything, that will always be there for them and for each other, that won’t ever leave. Plenty of kids never get that. We didn’t.” 

“I guess,” he sighed, slumping back into the pillows. 

“Hey,” Sam leaned over him, hand coming up to cradle Dean’s face, long finger tracing tenderly over the curve of his eyebrow. “It’ll be alright. We’ll be alright. We’ll figure this out, you and me. We can do anything.” 

Dean felt the breath catch in his chest, insides twisting at the look on Sam’s face, the belief in his voice. He was so tempted to give into it, to believe in what Sam was saying – the immutability of them – but this was so much more than that, this was his kids’ future. Would Jonah and Simon ever be able to understand, or forgive them? He honestly didn’t know. Would he be able to forgive in their place? Maybe they could tell them that Sam wasn’t actually his brother, that Sam was – God – adopted or something like that? Create some story that would explain it.

No, they couldn’t do that. He couldn’t lie to his kids. He just had to hope that Jonah and Simon loved them enough to see past it.

“Here,” he said suddenly, and before he really knew what he was doing, he was pulling the silver ring (the one he’d worn on the fourth finger of his right hand ever since Dad had given it to him) off of his finger and was holding it out to Sam. “Take it; I want you to have it.” 

“What?” Sam blinked at him, looking from the ring lying in the palm of Dean’s hand, like the One Ring in those old promos for the Lord of the Rings movies, back up to Dean’s face. “Dean, what are you?” 

“Put it on. Here,” he directed. He reached for Sam’s right hand and clumsily pushed the ring onto his fourth finger. It slid down it easily, fitting perfectly. Huh, he’d kinda expected it wouldn’t fit, Sam’s hands being so freaking enormous, but then Dad had hardly been a small-handed man. 

“Dean,” Sam said and his tone was bemused, but also indulgent, and also something else. Dean risked a glance at his brother’s face; saw the shine to his eyes that signaled held-back tears. Sam was always so damn emotional. “Dean, you can’t. This was Dad’s wedding ring, he gave this to you on his deathbed.” 

“Yeah, and I want you to have it. I’m giving it to you.” 

He’d always worn it, just as Dad had always worn it, faithful to the memory of their Mom, their family. Sure, he’d had his own wedding rings too – one from Reiko and one from Jess – but this silver ring, this gift from Dad had always been a part of his body in a way that those rings never had. It was fitting that he would give it to Sam, that it would come to mean the same thing for him and Sam as it had done for Dad and Mom. It was weird and it was creepy, but it fit. He loved Sam, as a brother, and as something else, as Dad had loved Mom, and whatever happened in the future, whatever he decided to do, Sam needed to know that. 

 

**

 

He didn’t feel sad on the journey back to Kansas, the usual post-vacation blues not really hitting him. Things were going to change. At long last, he was going to do what he should’ve done a long time ago: finally put the past behind him, not just Mom and Dad and their shitty desperate childhood, but his own fuck-ups, his failed marriages and non-existent career, and maybe even the nightmares, all that psychological baggage that had always held him back. 

Sure, he knew that just moving to a different state wasn’t going to immediately solve all his problems. After all, you took them with you, or so the cliché went. But what mattered was that they had a plan. They could have a future – all four of them - and somewhere new, somewhere where no one knew them, they could start over. 

He sighed as he merged onto the 35. They were only an hour from home now, and it was already full-dark, the boys (finally) fast asleep in the backseat. He glanced sideways at his brother. Sam had also gone to sleep, his eyes closed and mouth slack, drooling probably. Dean watched him for as long as he safely could, eyes flicking from the quiet blacktop to Sam’s face. It seemed ridiculously remiss of him to have never noticed before just how fucking beautiful his brother really was. Sure, he’d always gotten that Sam was hot. Sam had had plenty of admirers over the years for Dean to get that memo, fucking Troy at the Deaf and Gay Club, David of course, all those guys at that bar, even Jess back in high school. But Sam was way more than just another hot guy, he had the sort of body made for the pages of GQ or Men’s Health, so powerful and strong, without an ounce of fat anywhere, able to overpower Dean so easily if he wanted, just like last night. 

Dean swallowed, face flushing as his mind flew back to the previous night. He still couldn’t – fuck - he still couldn’t quite believe that they’d done that, that Sam had done that to him and that he’d let him. 

“I’ve wanted to do this to you for ages,” Sam had said with that burning, feverish look in his eyes. 

So Sam had rolled him onto his front, kissed his way down his back, tonguing the knobs of his spine and sucking at the taut, firm skin over his shoulder blades and sides, until he’d gotten to the dip of his back just above the swell of his ass. 

“This bit, this bit here. This bit is one of my favorite parts of your body, Dean. It’s so perfect, so delicious. When I used to jerk off, I used to think about this bit. About my cock riding your ass, about coming all over your back, and I used to come so fucking hard.” Dean’d swallowed, felt his own cock press down painfully into the mattress at Sam’s words. Sam had stopped talking, busy layering kisses over his ass cheeks, and then he’d swept his tongue over Dean’s ass crack and Dean had jumped like he’d been kicked in the chest. 

_“Holy, fucking shit!”_ he’d gasped out, and Sam had chuckled evilly, the sound reverberating against his ass, sending shockwaves up his spine. 

Sam hadn’t stopped, he’d licked all around Dean’s asshole, pressed his tongue inside and kissed and slobbered until Dean could feel the wetness of his brother’s saliva dripping down his ass, slicking up his thighs, and still Sam hadn’t stopped. Dean had started to shake, feeling so close, so exposed, so opened up, so fucking on fire. Sam had pushed his tongue fully inside, and Dean was losing his breath, clawing at the mattress, the rumpled sheets, and whimpering like a hopeless animal. 

Nothing had ever felt this good before, and as he’d ground his cock helplessly into the mattress, desperate for purchase, for some tiny, fractional friction, he’d wished that he could see it, see what Sam was doing to him, see his brother’s tongue vanishing into his asshole. He’d lost it only seconds later, pumping out his release into the already stained sheets as his fingers reached behind and caught Sam’s hand in a death-grip. 

Sam had rolled him over, lips and chin shiny with saliva, eyes alight with glee and arousal. “You like that?” he’d asked, and Dean had laughed, shaky and disbelieving and completely fucking done. 

He shifted in the driver’s seat, aware that he was now fully hard, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans. He grinned to himself and stretched out a hand to squeeze Sam’s thigh, the muscle hard and tight and strong under his fingers. Sam muttered something sleepily under his breath, raising his big hand lazily to bat Dean’s away. 

The boys awoke as he pulled up outside their house, blinking dazedly around them, rubbing their eyes with their fists and tumbling out the car with scrunched-up, unhappy faces. 

_I want to go on vacation again_ , Simon said, big, fat tears fringing sad, tired eyes. 

_Next year, sweetheart_ , Dean told him, brushing the hot tangle of dark curls back from his stricken face. 

He took them both up to their bedroom, helping them peel out of their travel-ruffled clothes and climb into their cold beds. There’d be a lot of work to do tomorrow: laundry and homework, household chores and groceries, and he had to be back at work for the nightshift. He went to the window to draw the curtains and peered down into the front driveway, seeing Sam unloading the straining trunk, passing through the front door with laden arms. He dropped the curtains back in place, leaned over the beds to kiss both boys goodnight, and left the room. 

He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, trying to wash the road dirt away. He left the bathroom and came slowly down the stairs, pausing by the old picture of Mom and Dad taken outside the house in Lawrence, their happy, hopeful faces smiling back at him. He dragged his eyes away and onto the next photo: him and Sammy, at nine and five, posing on the hood of the Impala, grinning stupidly for Dad’s camera, and beside it: Jonah and Simon, taken a couple of years ago, the two of them also posed on the hood of the Impala, Jonah’s arm slung around Simon’s small shoulders in the same pose. He stared at both pictures for what felt like a long time, then he turned on his heels and climbed back up the stairs. 

Both boys looked to be asleep already when he pushed their bedroom door open again. He stood on the threshold of the room, watching their chests rise and fall, listening to the sound of their breathing, remembering years ago when Jonah was a baby, standing over his crib, listening to his quiet, snuffly breaths, so terrified that any moment, it would just stop. 

“Dad, why are you watching us?” 

He jumped, gaze flying to Jonah who was blinking sleepily and staring up at him with bleary, confused eyes. “It’s creepy,” Jonah added in a sleep-slurred, accusing tone. 

Dean swallowed and drew closer, perching on the edge of Jonah’s bed. “Sorry,” he said. 

“S’alright,” said Jonah magnanimously, twisting over onto his side and burrowing down into his comforter. 

He leaned in and gently smoothed a hand over his rumpled hair. Jonah exhaled a soft, purring sort of a breath and snuggled harder into his pillow. Dean kissed his cheek, getting to his feet to do the same for Simon before he left the room once more. 

He descended the stairs slowly, this time deliberately not looking at the photographs that lined the hallway and the landing. He could hear Sam in the kitchen, cupboards opening and shutting, the shuffling pad-pad of his footsteps. 

“Hey,” he greeted him. 

Sam looked up from where he was bending over to replace the cleaning supplies he’d brought with them. “Hey. They both asleep?” 

“Yup.” 

“You want a beer?” 

“God, yes.” 

Sam waved a hand towards the fridge. “In there, we had some left.” 

Dean fetched them both a couple of beers, twisting off the caps, handing one off to Sam. 

“Cheers,” Sam leaned in, clinked the necks together. “What shall we drink to: the future?” 

His expression was so hopeful that it made something in Dean’s throat catch. He forced out a smile, nodded grimly. “Uh, yeah. Okay.” 

He took a long pull, then lowered the bottle and exhaled heavily. 

“Sammy, I gotta – there’s something I gotta say, man.” 

Sam watched him for what felt like a long time, taking a couple of pulls on his beer, all the while studying Dean carefully with that characteristic, measured gaze. “You’re breaking up with me,” he said quietly. 

“I – what? That’s, uh, that’s crazy.” 

“No, it’s not. And I’m right, aren’t I?” 

Dean swallowed, bowed his head, unable to meet his brother’s eyes for a moment, “Sam.” 

“It’s okay; you don’t need to say it. It’s because of the boys, isn’t it?” 

Dean raised his head, meeting Sam’s eyes, shiny with unshed tears. He nodded dumbly, “Yeah.” 

Sam exhaled heavily, nodding his head like a bobble-headed doll. Dean watched him walk over towards the sink, curl his fingers around the edge of the work-surface, those big hands that had been all over Dean’s body, that had traced the lines of his muscles and adored every inch of him. 

“We were just kidding ourselves,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “it was a fantasy. What if anyone found out? What if Child Protection Services - they’d take them away from us!” 

“Maybe not.” 

“Yeah, but are you willing to risk it?” 

He watched his brother’s shoulders fall, his back slump as he took in Dean’s words. 

“No,” Sam finally muttered, the word barely audible as it passed his lips. 

Dean swallowed and approached Sam slowly, placing his beer on the draining board, remembering that night all those months back when he’d done exactly this, when Sam had confessed everything to him. How he really felt, how he’d been feeling all those years, the love and desire Sam’d hidden from him for so long. God, he’d been so terrified that this would ruin everything, that saying no would drive Sam away and break up their family. And he’d been frightened, he could admit this now, terrified of just how good and _not wrong_ it had felt to kiss Sam, when any normal brother would be freaking the fuck out. 

But they weren’t normal brothers, they never had been, and that was the entire goddamn point. 

His hand was hovering over Sam’s shoulder and he lowered it hesitantly, feeling Sam tense under the contact. Sam’s breath hitched, he twisted around, bowing his head until his forehead rested on Dean’s shoulder, his mouth wet against Dean’s collar, their bodies so close their chests were grazing. Dean splayed his fingers over the back of his brother’s head and carded his fingers gently through his thick hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Sam made a choking sound and brought his arms up around Dean’s back, pulling him in so tightly it felt like he was trying to meld them together, trying to sink all of himself into Dean. 

Dean stroked his hand up and down his brother’s back, remembering all those occasions when he’d comforted him. All those times Sammy had come home from school with dirty tear tracks on his chubby cheeks ‘cause some kid had said something about his mom or made fun of his dad. How they’d lain together on the couch and watched cartoons and munched candy until Sammy was okay again. 

Sam pulled away from him, his head still bowed and face hidden, his back half-turned. Dean’s hands dropped to his sides and dangled uselessly by his hips. He reached for his beer, needing to be doing something with his hands. There was nothing he could say to Sam now that would make it better, he’d made his decision: he’d sacrificed his brother’s and his own happiness for his kids. But that was right, that was how it should be, nothing was more important than his boys. 

He watched Sam sink to the kitchen table, drop his head into his hands, face hidden by his fingers and swathes of messy, brown hair. 

“Sam?” he said tentatively. “You okay? Speak to me, man.” 

Sam raised his head wearily; his eyes were bloodshot, shiny with tears, face ugly and stricken. “Dean, what am I gonna do? I can’t, I don’t wanna leave you, and I can’t - fuck, I can’t stay here and not be with you. I can’t do that now I know, Dean. What am I gonna do? Tell me what to do.” 

Oh God. He couldn’t answer that. He was the one who always looked to Sam for answers. 

He gulped, passed the back of his hand over his lips. “I don’t know. God, Sam. You gotta see. I can’t lose them. I can’t – shit, Sammy, how would we ever explain this to them?” 

Sam’s mouth twisted. “I was working on a speech for that.” 

Dean snorted and shook his head, the weight of fondness and affection in his chest making his insides hurt. Of course Sam was working on a speech for that, and knowing Sam, it would be an awesome speech, it would explain everything. Explain them, their fucked-up feelings for each other. And perhaps, maybe, in an alternate universe, Jonah and Simon would listen and they’d understand, they’d get it and they’d forgive them. But that was an alternate universe, that wasn’t here and now. Here and now, he couldn’t take that chance. 

He sat down at the table, opposite from Sam, his usual place. He slid his hand across the table, curled his fingers around Sam’s forearm, squeezing gently. Sam moved his own hand, placed it over Dean’s, entwining their fingers so Dean’s hand was caught between Sam’s arm and Sam’s hand, a prison of Sam-skin. It felt good, solid and warm and safe. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Sam said quietly. 

“Then don’t – just, don’t,” Dean breathed, his stomach queasy with relief. “I don’t want you to leave. You know that’s the last thing I want. But, Sam, we can’t be together like a couple, we can’t risk it. So, maybe, I don’t know, maybe I should stop being selfish." 

“What do you mean?” 

He swallowed, forcing the hateful words out. “Maybe you _should_ leave, like, find someone else, have your own family-” 

“I don’t want another boyfriend, or another family! You guys are my family!” Sam shot back, his tone hard and insistent, eyes blazing defiantly, the old Sammy tenacity returning. “You’re not gonna force me away for my own good, Dean! That’s so fucking patronizing!” 

Dean huffed out a strangled laugh, unable to prevent his lips from curling up into a rueful smile. This was his Sam, his gorgeous, stubborn, tough, little brother. 

Sam took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. He jerked his hand from Dean’s grasp, raised it to his face, dragged the back of it across his mouth before letting it slump to the table. He ducked his head as he swallowed, the momentary defiance leaving him and his shoulders slumping once again, defeated. Dean stared in dismay, his throat and chest aching hopelessly. The skin of his hand tingled where Sam had touched him. 

Eventually Sam raised his head, met his gaze head-on. “Well, I guess I should give you your ring back,” he stated flatly. 

“What? No! No, it’s yours. I meant everything I said when I gave it to you. You know that.” He could hear the wheedling, pleading tone to his voice, and he hated himself for it. 

He licked his lips. He wanted to say something else, but he didn’t know the words and anyway, Sam was drawing away from him, getting up from the table, his eyes shuttered, face a blank, horrible mask. He watched, a helpless and useless thing, as Sam collected their empty bottles and threw them into the recycling, the loud shattering of glass making him flinch. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Sam announced. 

“Okay,” he said, because what else could he say? 

He sat in silence at the kitchen table for a few minutes after Sam had left the room, hearing Sam’s heavy footfalls on the stairs, the click and snick of the bathroom room, the clang of the ancient hot water pipes. In the background, the old refrigerator was buzzing quietly to itself. Sam had left it to defrost while they were away, the damn thing was so freaking old that it needed to be defrosted every couple of months, and there was a small puddle of water by the door that Sam must’ve missed when he cleared up earlier. 

He got up from the table, taking a rag from the cupboard under the sink and kneeling to mop up the puddle. It wouldn’t do to leave it. One of the boys could slip tomorrow, bang his head against the corner of the refrigerator, end up concussed or worse, and then where would they be? All because he was too lazy to mop up a damn puddle. 

He wrung out the cold, gooey water in the sink, tossing the used rag back in the cupboard. He straightened up, catching his reflection in the dark window above the sink. He looked strange, old, he thought, but aside from that, no different from usual, nothing to tell that he’d just made the hardest decision of his entire life. He’d just condemned himself to a half-life, he’d just broken his little brother’s heart. 

He swallowed and turned away from his reflection, his throat ached, as raw as a five mile run on an ice-cold day. Maybe they could figure something out. There was always some other way – hadn’t TV and movies taught them that? And he and Sammy were smart. Well, Sam was smart, resourceful too. Maybe they could come to some arrangement. Maybe they could... 

God, what? Creep around behind Jonah and Simon’s backs like an adulterous couple having a sordid affair? And what would happen if they were found out? ‘Cause people always found out. His boys were smart; surely they would figure out one day that the relationship between their father and their uncle was not normal, that what their father and his brother shared was something sordid, something dirty, something wrong. And then – then they’d turn against him and Sam,. They’d hate them, because however much he tried to rationalize it in his head, however much he loved Sam and Sam loved him back, deep down he knew it was wrong. 

He opened the high cupboard and took down the whiskey bottle, poured himself a glass. He drained it quickly, barely tasting it, then poured himself another. 

If anyone ever found out. 

They could take the kids. 

He could remember what it was like to live in fear of Child Protective Services, remember how it felt to be taken away from his family home, separated from his Dad and put in care, stuck in a home with twenty other kids. All the time terrified that he’d never see Dad again, that they’d take baby Sammy away. He would never, _never_ let that happen to Jonah or Simon. 

He silently refilled his glass and padded into the big den. He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, feeling absurdly disoriented, taking in his surroundings as if he were in someone else’s home: the family photographs on the walls, Simon and Jonah’s muddy sneakers by the door, Sam’s flannel shirt slung over the back of the couch, Sam’s coffee mug on the coffee table next to the stack of unopened bills, all the clothes and toys and books and clutter taking up every square foot of space, tangible evidence of them, his family, the four of them.

Maybe they could do this, he thought suddenly, a wild, hopeful euphoria overtaking him. Maybe he and Sam could go back to the life they’d had before Sam’s big revelation? Pretend like the past few months hadn’t happened; pretend that they didn’t have all these twisted, incestuous feelings for each other. After all, they were brothers, _family_ , and nothing was more important than family. 

“Dean?” 

He jumped and spun around. Sam was standing in the doorway, wearing a towel around his hips, another loose in his hands, water rolling down his naked chest, and that was – fuck – Sam couldn’t do that anymore, tease him like that. It wasn’t fair. 

“Dude, put some freaking clothes on,” he muttered. 

Sam made an amused sound at the back of his throat and came forward to slouch into Dad’s armchair, exhaling heavily. “I’ve been thinking, and I just wanna say that I’m sorry for before. I was," he made a face, bitter and self-deprecating, “being selfish, I guess. I just – God, Dean. I’ve wanted this – you – for so long that sometimes that’s all I can see. But you’re right, we have to put Jonah and Simon first. I couldn’t – fuck – I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to them because of us, because of my fucked-up feelings for you.” His mouth twisted unhappily and he slumped backwards into an exhausted sprawl, wet hair against the back of the chair, turning the beige upholstery a dark brown. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Dean said slowly, “it wasn’t just you that wanted it.” 

He stared down at his glass. They sat in silence for a while, Sam making no move to dry himself off, just staring blankly in front of him. 

“So, uh, what about moving?” Sam asked finally, “You still want to move?” 

“Yeah.” He sighed then raised his head, eyes meeting Sam’s. He smiled faintly, a crooked, wry twist of his lips. “I want out of this place, Sammy, I’ve had enough. I want to start again, somewhere else.” 

“Too many ghosts,” Sam whispered, and God, wasn’t that the goddamn truth. 

Dean shivered. “Yeah, way too many ghosts.” 

They both were silent again for a while, then Sam sighed, got to his feet, raising the towel in his hands to scrub it haphazardly through his dripping hair. “I guess I should hit the sack. So should you. It’s been a long day and you’ve been driving all day, you should get some sleep.” His tone was chiding, the faintly parental note disguising familiar concern. 

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes locked on his glass, not trusting himself to look at Sam. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow, about what needs to be done,” Sam added. 

“Okay,” he agreed. 

He followed Sam up the stairs, trying not to fixate on the play of muscles under Sam’s smooth tanned skin, his long, long legs and firm, shapely ass. It wasn’t his place to look anymore; he’d given up that right. 

On the landing, he hesitated outside his bedroom door, watching Sam pause outside his, feeling absurdly like they were in the final act of some Shakespearian tragedy. 

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and his voice sounded strange in his ears, scratchy and unfamiliar. 

“Night, Dean,” Sam said softly. “You know, it’s all gonna be okay. We’ll figure things out. You and me, man, we can do anything.” 

There was such belief in his words, so much conviction that Dean could only nod and stutter out, “Yeah, yeah. Uh, night, Sammy.” He blinked, held his breath as he watched Sam disappear into his own room, the sound of the Sam’s bedroom door closing resonating in his mind like a book slamming shut. He exhaled slowly, and entered his own room.


	9. Chapter 9

_If you should ever leave me, though life would still go on, believe me  
The world could show nothing to me; so what good would living do me? _  
God Only Knows – Beach Boys

 

 _May 2023, thirteen years later..._

 

Sam watched Dean take a swig from his water bottle as the line edged slowly towards passport control. Dean had been bitching almost incessantly since they’d boarded the plane in Hawaii, and now that they’d finally landed at LAX, he was still scowling, eyes narrowed and mouth scrunched up into an unhappy line. 

Sam fished his cell phone out of his pocket and switched it on. One new message: _Hey, hope flight was ok. See you at hotel at 8. X._

He smiled to himself, and slipped the phone back into his pocket. 

“What?” Dean grunted, elbowing him in the ribs. 

“Text from Simon. They’re gonna meet us at the hotel.” 

“Oh, right,” Dean responded with a nod, his expression getting less dark, almost mollified, at the news. 

“You feeling better now?” 

“No!” And the pout was back. 

Sam sighed manfully. God, Dean could be such a freaking drama queen when things didn’t go his way. “You should’ve taken those pills, like I told you.” 

“Yeah, and you should’ve blown me in the bathroom like I told _you_. That would’ve taken my mind off of it.” 

“No, I shouldn’t, Dean, because that would’ve gotten us arrested.” 

“Whatever.” 

“You know, those freaking pills were not cheap, man, and if you’d taken them, you’d’ve just slept the entire way, and wouldn’t be acting like a total bitch now–“ 

“I’m not sleeping for an entire flight! What if it’d gone down? I’d’ve been the first to die, all drugged up and useless!” 

This time Sam did roll his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief and letting out a long, hissed breath for good measure. The really tragic thing was that Dean was completely serious. 

“You know I would never have let your fine ass die,” he said with a smile that was supposed to be conciliatory, but Dean wasn’t about to be cajoled this time and just glared back at him. 

Dean’s freaky issues with flying were one of the few things that, when pressed, Sam would admit to wanting to change about his brother. He got that everybody was afraid of something. But it was particularly annoying that Dean’s phobia had always stopped them from ever taking any decent vacations. They’d only gone on this one because the boys had booked it and arranged it and presented it to them as a fait accompli – a gift for his fortieth birthday – and one that had really moved him. Evidently someone had been listening every time he’d waxed lyrical about the wonders of Hawaii. 

They shuffled forward in line. Jesus, this place really did suck: the too-bright, too-harsh lights, their unhealthy looking, red-faced, fellow travelers, all those people who evidently had never heard of sunscreen. He glanced down at his own tanned forearms, feeling a surge of smugness. He’d always tanned quickly, turning a deep bronzed color all over, a change that Dean had seemed to find really fucking appealing, judging by how little he’d been able to keep his hands to himself. Not that Sam was complaining. He was going to miss how open they’d been able to be with each other during the vacation. Being such a long way from home really did have its advantages: wandering around hand in hand with Dean (though that had taken serious persuasion and a lot of blowjobs), feeding each other bits of food from their plates at restaurants, (though, that was more Dean stealing bits of food from Sam’s plate than a romantic staring into each other’s eyes and using the same ice cream spoon type of deal), even making out in public (when Dean was too drunk or too horny to get prickly and self-conscious about PDA’s), not to mention all the time they’d spent in their suite, giving the enormous bed a really good workout. 

God, he was going to miss Hawaii. Still, they were not going home straight away. They’d arranged to spend two nights in LA, enough time to see the boys and collect the Impala from the garage in town where Jonah had stashed it before the drive back home. Dean had to be back at work in three days. This was the first time he’d been able to take any time off since his promotion to Second Detective eight months ago, and Sam’d signed up to teach classes every day throughout the summer so this would be it for him too, their last days of freedom. 

 

Dean let out an impressed whistle when they finally fumbled the door to their hotel room open. Jonah had really gone all out when he’d picked this room. In fact it wasn’t even a room, it was a goddamn suite, with a hot-tub and enormous floor-length windows with spectacular views, and wait a second - one king-size bed. Just one. Huh. 

Sam wheeled the suitcase inside, propping it up beside the bed. He turned to watch his brother. Dean was engaged in his usual hotel room routine of opening cupboards, pulling out drawers and generally poking around. He dragged his eyes away from Dean and sank to the edge of the bed. Jesus, that was one seriously comfortable bed. 

So, was this deliberate? Their hotel suite in Hawaii had also only had one bed, and they’d just written that off as a mistake – one they’d most definitely made the most of – but still, a mistake. Had the same mistake really happened again? Or was this something more intentional? Was Jonah trying to tell them something? If he was, he was being a lot more subtle about it than Sam would ever have given him credit for. 

“Hey, one bed again,” Dean commented, inspection over. “Well, that’s convenient.” He quirked an eyebrow at Sam and smirked, evidently not at all concerned by the ramifications or possible cryptic message it implied. 

But, seriously, could there be any chance the boys might’ve figured them out? 

When they first moved out West, there hadn’t been a “them” to figure out, the two of them having decided to go back to just being brothers again. And, hell, it wasn’t like Sam hadn’t been used to that state of affairs. He’d been Dean’s brother way longer than he’d ever been his lover. He’d pined for Dean for years; in some ways, it had been surprisingly easy to slot back into that old familiar pattern. Though, in other ways, it had royally sucked. 

Being in a new town and a new state had helped. They’d been too busy adjusting to their new life - new jobs, new schools, new neighbors – to really think about anything else. And then, after they’d gotten set up, there were new people to meet and possibly date, and so they’d done that too. Unsurprisingly, Dean had been pretty successful at it, having three relationships, two women and one guy (and hadn’t that been a totally fucking kick in the pants), which could definitely be called serious, or at least, serious on one side. To Sam’s relief, Dean had ended every relationship after less than a year, confessing to Sam with a wry twist of his mouth that it wasn’t fair, he wasn’t in love with them. The question had been on the tip of Sam's tongue every time: _Are you still in love with me, Dean? Do you still want me as much as I want you?_ But he hadn’t said anything, too terrified of his brother’s answer, and not sure if a yes or a no would’ve been worse. 

He’d tried himself, dated a few guys for a couple of weeks here and there, but he was rusty, his last, his _only_ experience of dating had been David, and that had put him off for years. So he’d fallen back into his old ways of long nights out at gay bars, multiple hookups and a couple of regular fuck-buddies, but he’d even given that up after his thirty-fifth birthday. The scene was getting old and his heart wasn’t in it anymore. 

So, for the last five years, neither of them had bothered with other people. They were entwined so irrevocably, living in the same house, raising the same kids, depending on each other for moral support, companionship, brotherly affection, everything they’d always been to each other. Plus that knowledge, secret and hidden, of everything else: how it had been between them, how it could be, if they allowed it. Nothing or no one else could ever come close. 

They’d slipped up on a few occasions, unable to stop themselves, nights when they’d gotten too drunk or too maudlin or too damn frustrated; nights when the kids were off at summer camp or at sleepovers; nights when they’d both gone out on “dates” and ended up at the same bar, screwing around frantically in the men’s room, busting buttons and zips in their desire to get at each other, checking into a motel for a quickie on the way home, slamming each other up against walls, bedsprings quaking and headboards rattling as they drove each other crazy in their frustrated lust. In a mawkish and very gay way, it had reminded him of Brokeback Mountain. Him and Dean, an incestuous version of Jack and Ennis with their forbidden love, forced to snatch time together whenever they could . Though of course, he and Dean had had to live alongside each other every single day all the while, playing their roles of devoted brothers and responsible parents. 

But that had all changed two years ago, after Simon had left for college. 

He could remember the drive back from Stanford, the two of them jittery and on edge, closing the front door and gazing at each other for what felt like ages. Dean had licked his lips and said shakily, “Just you and me now, Sammy.” 

“Yeah,” he’d replied, breath caught in his chest. 

“About freaking time.” 

And then Dean had been on him, slamming him up against the wall, mouths and bodies melting together once more. 

Could Jonah and Simon know about them now? Apart from the bed coincidence – double coincidence – neither of the boys had ever shown any indication that they might suspect. Neither of them had ever said anything, and both of them had always sucked at keeping secrets. 

No, there was no way. They’d always been too careful, keeping to separate bedrooms. Even now when it was just the two of them, with Dean’s shifts and late hours, they frequently ended up sleeping separately in their own rooms. And he and Dean had always been affectionate with each other, hugs and backslaps, the innocent and open brotherly affection that both Jonah and Simon copied, that kind of behavior would never send any warning signs. 

No, he was doing what he always did, what Dean always accused him of, he was reading way too much into it. 

“Sam?” Dean’s voice jerked him out of his reverie, and he turned to see his brother standing by the hot-tub and smiling broadly. “How much time we got until they get here? You reckon it’s enough for a long, hot soak?” 

From a distance, Dean looked exactly the same as he had twenty years ago: the grey hair and fine lines not that obvious from this distance, his body just as slim and lean as when he was eighteen, probably slimmer and leaner now that he’d given up playing football and gotten the two of them hooked on distance running. Even close up, despite looking every one of his forty-four years, he was still attractive, still Dean, handsome, charismatic and charming enough to make people look twice and then keep looking. 

Sam grinned back at him, long and slow. “I think we got plenty of time.” 

 

 

Simon and Jonah were waiting for them in the hotel bar when they finally made it downstairs, Jonah draped across one of the bar stools in an elegant sprawl, his hair neatly disheveled, wearing the sort of outrageous, ragtag ensemble that Sam knew had to be crazily expensive and highly exclusive, but that on anyone else without Jonah’s looks or height or innate sense of style would look completely ridiculous. Jonah, of course, got away with it, in the same way he’d gotten away with gelling his hair, tucking in his shirts and loudly proclaiming his love for Lady Gaga when he was nine years old. Next to his brother, Simon looked like a typical college student, dressed in jeans and hoodie and sneakers, his messy dark hair cut into long bangs and thick rimmed glasses obscuring his big hazel eyes. 

Simon had been a parent’s dream growing up. He’d gotten good grades, kept himself out of trouble, and been quiet and self-sufficient in a way that had reminded Sam of himself at that age. He’d graduated high school a year early and top of his class, with a scholarship to Stanford. Sam was not embarrassed to admit that he’d wept like a thirteen-year-old girl on the day of Simon’s graduation, to both Dean and Jonah’s immense amusement. But he hadn’t cared. Seeing his little boy accomplishing what he’d always wanted to do himself, never letting his disability hold him back from anything, was one of the happiest moments of his life, and anyway, both Dean and Reiko had been totally tearing up during the ceremony too. 

Jonah, by contrast, had not been easy, going through a metamorphosis when he hit twelve and turning into an intense, angry and very emotional teenager, with mood swings that veered from passionate fights where he would loudly declare that he hated them, that it was their fault his life sucked, their fault he had no mom, their fault everyone thought he was a freak, to equally passionate reconciliation sessions where he would sob and cling despairingly to Dean, fingers locked tightly in Dean’s shirt, muffled declarations of, _“I’m sorry, Dad, I love you, Dad, sorry, don’t hate me, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it…”_ and all would be forgiven, until the next time. He’d tried to run off to LA “to pursue his dreams” on three occasions and had been kicked out of two different schools. The second time he’d been caught selling marijuana to his fellow students and had only avoided criminal charges due to Dean’s position on the detective squad. 

Still, that was all in the past now, and Jonah had been almost an ideal son since he’d turned sixteen, when he’d been spotted by a model agency scout in a restaurant while the four of them were having dinner. They’d been wary at first about allowing their son to get involved in that kind of business, Dean in particular. But Jonah was adamant and so in the end they’d given in and agreed to indulge his burning need for fame and recognition. It had paid off. The kid was earning more money than he knew what to do with now, his face plastered over enormous 40 foot billboards, or in the windows of fancy-ass department stores as the face of Armani’s new men’s fragrance. Sam was getting accustomed to seeing their little boy’s face pouting down at him from everywhere he looked with that disquieting smoldering stare and post-sex bed-head that was really not something a parent was comfortable seeing on his kid’s face. Knowing that the whole freaking world was seeing it along with him definitely didn’t help. And he knew that Dean, while claiming to be incredibly proud of his son’s success and good looks – _all in the genes, Sammy_ \- was even less comfortable with it. 

The four of them caught up over dinner, fingers flying in between mouthfuls of food. Sam and Dean talking about their vacation, Jonah about his latest shoot, the next one in New York for some new brand of Hugo Boss underwear. 

_Underwear modeling?_ Dean asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable by the news. 

Jonah shrugged nonchalantly, _They’re paying me a lot of money, and I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Dad. If you’ve got it, you should show it. That’s what I think._

Dean shook his head in disbelief, but was admirably quiet on the matter. A few years ago, Dean would’ve said something, voiced his disapproval out loud, but he’d learned to be more diplomatic since then, to let the boys make their own mistakes. And besides, with Jonah, any kind of argument or disapproval was a waste of time, unless you wanted him to do the exact opposite. Jonah always did exactly what he wanted. 

Simon started talking about school, about his girlfriend Julie, how they’d broken up a couple of months earlier, but apparently, she wanted to get back together. _I like her, but I don’t know if she’s the right one,_ he said with a frown. 

Jonah smirked. _No such thing as the right one, just the next one._

Simon shook his head, that indulgent look in his eyes that reminded Sam so much of himself. _Shut up, you’re such a man-whore_.

_Better than being a prissy bitch._

_Okay, that’s enough,_ Dean interrupted. _Now, who wants dessert?_

They made plans to meet up the following day, exchanging hugs and backslaps in the hotel lobby as they said goodnight. Simon would not be coming back home with them, but staying with Jonah for the rest of the summer, working as his “assistant”. Though as Jonah already had an assistant, Sam suspected it would be more of a slave/companion sort of deal, which happily, was more or less the role Simon had played for his brother most of his life. 

Dean strolled off to the reception desk to enquire about the complimentary breakfast, while Sam watched the boys through the lobby windows. They were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a cab, one of Jonah’s arms slung tight and protective around Simon’s shoulders, the other stretched out to flag down a taxi. He watched as the taxi drew up, Jonah opened the door and ushered Simon inside, before sliding in himself. Jonah had always relished his big brother role: translator, protector, hero and tormentor, he got to play all the parts, and Simon had always indulged him in it. 

He swallowed back the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and turned to see Dean strolling towards him with a satisfied grin on his face. 

“Sammy, breakfast is gonna be awesome. They have pancakes, dude, pancakes!” 

 

Upstairs, in their room, Sam flicked through their endless array of cable and satellite channels. Dean was in the bathroom, vigorously brushing his teeth and gargling to the tune of what sounded like _Paint It Black_. He snapped off the light and stalked back into the room, completely naked. 

“Hey,” he said as Dean slid into bed beside him. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, course. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“No reason. S’just – vacation’s over, real life again.” 

Dean groaned and sprawled onto his back, sheets rumpling around him. “God, man, why’d you always have to be such a downer?” 

Sam chuckled lightly under his breath. “One of us has to keep it real.” 

“Keep it real? You know, Sam, it’s not 1993 anymore.” He reached over and tweaked his nipple. 

Sam slapped his hand away, “ _Ow_!” 

Dean laughed and turned so he was propped up on one elbow, looking down at him. 

“What?” Sam asked. “And don’t say nothing, I can tell when something’s bothering you.” 

Dean bit his lip, hesitating for a second, before he sighed, obviously deciding to give in and spill already. “Don’t you think it’s kinda strange that the boys booked us two different rooms – both with king-size beds?” 

Sam froze, staring up blindly into his brother’s hesitant, uncertain gaze. “I, uh, yeah. I’ve been wondering that too.” 

“You think they know?” 

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Maybe. I mean, Dean, they’re not stupid.” 

Dean nodded, exhaling heavily; he rolled back into the sheets, expression going flat and defeated. “That’s what I figured.” 

They were silent for a long time, listening to the low murmur of the TV in the background, each other’s breathing steady and unrelenting in the silent room. He tried to think, tried to get his brain to dredge up scenarios, arguments for and against, reasons why Jonah and Simon might have guessed their secret. All those times they could’ve slipped up, and what they were going to do about it if the boys really did know. 

He couldn’t come up with anything. 

Eventually, he sighed out loud, breaking the silence. Dean immediately jerked his head his way, eyes going wide. 

“I think,” he said hesitantly, “I mean, let’s say they know: neither of them has said anything to us, so, I guess that means they don’t care, that they’re cool with it?” 

Dean licked his lips, shook his head, expression going rueful and flat. “Wishful thinking.” 

“Yeah, okay, but, Dean, c’mon, what’re you gonna do? What’re we gonna do? Say they know: you want me to move out? You want us to – I don’t know – stop seeing each other? Go back to just being brothers again, _again_? You want that?” 

“God, no.” 

“Well, then.” 

Dean huffed out a bitter, choked sort of laugh. “Jesus, why does it have to be so fucking difficult?” 

“That’s what happens when you fall in love with your brother,” Sam answered quietly. He rolled onto his side so he was the one looking down at Dean, head propped up on his elbow. He reached to trace a line across Dean’s eyebrows with the tip of his finger, smoothing over the lines at the corners of his eyes, the dry skin. Dean stared up at him, eyes wide and expectant. 

“Look, if they really did book those king-size rooms for us on purpose then doesn’t that mean that they’re cool with it? C’mon, man, that room in Hawaii was like a freaking honeymoon suite. And this one, take a look around. It doesn’t scream platonic brotherly love, does it?” 

Dean snorted, and Sam smiled reassuringly. “Exactly. Look, let’s not freak out about this, if they know, they know. There’s nothing we can do about it, and if they don’t, then we stay just like we are. At least now, they’re both adults, no one can take them away from us.” 

Dean bit his lip and nodded, eyes locked on Sam’s. 

“And, honestly, man, if they haven’t figured it out before now, then they’re not as smart as I thought they were. Look at us: we’re always together, we’ve barely ever dated anyone else, not for years anyway. Everyone in town already thinks we’re lying about the brothers thing. We’ve been hiding in plain sight for years.” 

He trailed off, the words hanging in the air around them. He reached for the remote, thumbed the TV off, and stretched to snap off the light switch, the room immediately getting dark, the faint glow from the outside streetlights barely penetrating the thick curtains. He turned onto his side, gaze raking over the familiar shape of his brother beside him, the back of his neck, curve of his shoulder, his long, smooth back. He shifted closer and tossed one arm around Dean’s chest, one leg over his thigh, pulling him back into his own body until they were touching from head to toe, skin to skin contact, Dean unresisting and compliant as he pulled him in. He pressed a kiss against Dean’s neck, felt him shiver at the touch, the sensation rippling up and down his own body. His erection was digging into Dean’s thighs, riding the crack of his ass, and he felt Dean gasp as he pulled him closer, hand reaching and finding Dean’s own hard cock. 

“You want me?” he whispered. 

Dean breathed, “Yeah.” 

He rolled them over, until he was the one on top, their faces obscured by shadow, planes and lines grey in the dark. They were both already naked so it was easy for him to wrap a hand around both their erections, Dean’s cock as familiar as his own in his hand. He lowered his mouth to his brother’s and sighed into the kiss as his fingers began to work up and down. 

Dean groaned out and arched up, throwing one leg around his thighs and one arm around Sam’s back, their bodylines fading into one. They kissed haphazardly, no finesse as Dean’s fingers tangled in his hair and guided his mouth where he wanted it. They came within seconds of each other, first Dean then him, gasping and groaning out his orgasm, hot and sticky over their fingers and stomachs. Sam groaned and collapsed on top of his brother, spent and laughing as he regained his breath, Dean making a face over the gross stickiness between them. 

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered after they’d cleaned up and gotten back into bed – to sleep this time. “I think this room stuff, I think it means that it’ll be okay. I think it was a genuine gift from them. For us.”

“Kinda subtle of them,” Dean murmured. 

Sam huffed out a breath, “Yeah. But be grateful; think how much a twin room would’ve sucked.” 

Dean chuckled tiredly and rolled into him, throwing one arm over his chest and planting a kiss on his collarbone. “Yeah.” He sighed and tilted his head back so their eyes met. There was a small, fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were shining. Sam felt his chest clench up, the look on Dean’s face doing weird things to his insides. “Hey, Sammy, happy birthday,” Dean whispered, and leaned down to kiss him again. 

 

END.


End file.
